


Breathe

by ancalime8301



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Community: avengerkink, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pneumonia, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sick Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: Tony catches the cold making the rounds of the compound, but for him it's not as simple as a common cold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an [avengerkink prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/21013.html?thread=54112533#t54112533).
> 
> The story is complete; chapters will be posted daily.

It began with the sniffles and a sore throat, or so he was told. He had no intention of catching the death plague currently making the rounds of the compound.

Personally, Tony blamed the renegade faction for the outbreak of colds amongst the Avengers and their support staff. After all, the Barton family was struck first, and it had happened very soon after Barton (and the rest of them) returned to the compound. Coincidence? He thought not. 

It was true that kids had a well-deserved reputation as germ magnets, but Barton's kids were decent and he could vouch for them not having been anywhere to pick up any such nonsense. They'd been at the compound for months, and the only place they ever went was the public library. (Which he still didn't understand, it's not like he couldn't buy them any book they wanted, but Laura insisted.)

In any case, the rampant cold germs were his excuse for shutting himself in his workshop and avoiding contact with just about everyone. Rhodey was the only one he saw with any regularity, and even that hadn't happened since Rhodey contracted the cold of doom. He'd sent a bot up to Rhodey's room with a package of hospital masks in encouragement, but his friend hadn't made an appearance for a few days.

Perhaps it really was a death plague. He should probably check, but then he might run into one of the many people he didn't want to deal with. Like Barton. Or, worse, Rogers.

Sometimes he wondered why he didn't just go back to the Tower. But Rhodey was here, and he'd gone to the trouble of bringing the bots and they hated any change in surroundings after what happened in Malibu.

And there was the pride aspect: he was Tony Stark, for god's sake, and he wasn't going to let a bunch of criminals run him out. Never mind that he'd agreed to this 'rehabilitation' scheme concocted to keep them out of Ross's hands, and never mind that Rogers claimed he'd like to mend the rift between them. There were things that happened that he wasn't ready to forgive.

He cleared his throat for the millionth time that hour and tried to focus on the suit upgrades he was working on, but his mind felt sluggish and dull. He gulped the last of his cold coffee, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and heaved a sigh that ended in a slight cough.

...shit.

"Friday, display vitals," he said, his growing suspicion quickly confirmed by the numbers on the screen. Heart rate and respiration slightly elevated, body temperature a full degree above his usual.

His self-quarantine was for naught. He'd caught it anyway.

 

"J--goddamn it, Friday--why is it so fucking cold in here?" He hoped it was his imagination that his voice sounded hoarse. He swallowed down a cough as he shivered and curled up more tightly on the workshop futon, clutching the thin blanket with trembling fingers.

"The ambient temperature has not changed, boss, but your internal temperature has risen another half degree. You should consider medication to alleviate the symptoms."

"Don't you sass me. I didn't program you to sass me," he grumbled. He should have thought of drugs sooner. She should have suggested drugs sooner. He'd only been feeling progressively worse for at least twelve hours.

But people. Namely Rogers and company. Right. He was avoiding them, especially now that he'd caught the death plague. No point in giving them more to needle him about. He could take care of himself.

But drugs. Sweet, sweet drugs to calm the pounding in his head and maybe let him sleep without coughing himself awake. He should keep a stock of drugs in the workshop, because he needed them and didn't have them and that was unacceptable.

He needed drugs. "Friday, where are the drugs?"

"The cold medication is on the counter in the kitchen area."

Ugh. Common area. There would be people, probably. But also drugs.

Moving took way more effort than it should have. The elevator wall was nice and cool against his face, though, and it meant there didn't have to be stairs. Both good things.

Tony could feel a cold sweat gathering under his rumpled clothes as he approached the doorway. He hoped it was from the effort of moving or the anxiety about who he might have to face while retrieving his needed drugs. If the cold sweat was thanks to the stupid virus, then it had already developed further than he'd realized and he might have bigger things to worry about.

He dismissed the tightness in his chest as the result of exertion.

 

Rhodey had just about given up on Tony making any sort of overtures toward getting the team back together. They'd exchanged sharp words on that very subject less than a week ago, right before he'd gotten a bit of the cold that was going around and he'd decided to leave Tony to it for a few days in hopes that would get through his stubborn skull.

Predictably, Tony seemed unmoved and had not shown his face for days. Rhodey could understand some of it, he really could, but Tony was beyond the point of reason and far off into the land of ego.

After all that, it was a surprise when Tony appeared in the common area as everyone else was sitting down to lunch. The Barton kids were thrilled to see him and ran over to hug him before he reached the table.

"Hey, kids. Uncle Tony needs some cold medicine, okay?"

Rhodey was alarmed by the rough sound of Tony's voice.

He was even more alarmed by the ashen color of his skin. "Friday, get Doctor Harris up here pronto. Tell her Tony's picked up that cold," he ordered as he rose from the table.

"Is Stark such a delicate flower that he needs a doctor for a cold?" Barton asked snidely.

There were other comments like "drama queen" and "just wants attention" murmured behind him with varying degrees of venom, but Rhodey ignored them.

Tony had made it as far as the kitchen island and seemed uncertain where to go next. Rhodey put a hand on his shoulder and grimaced. "Jesus, Tony, you're burning up. How long has this been going on?"

Tony shrugged absently. "A few hours. Where are the drugs?"

"No drugs until the doctor has a look at you. Why didn't you come up sooner?"

"Didn't want to bother," he said. Rhodey wasn't sure if Tony had intended to say more or not, but anything else was lost in a fit of coughing that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. It sounded wheezing and wet and painful and all of those things meant potentially bad news.

Tony reached for him and managed to grasp part of his sleeve before his legs gave way beneath him. Rhodey tried to catch him but went down with him in an awkward tangle, though he somehow prevented Tony from hitting his head on the counter on the way to the floor.

Rhodey cradled Tony in his arms, Tony's head resting on his shoulder. Tony seemed dazed, like he wasn't quite present. "Someone get me a damp cloth," Rhodey said shortly.

A washcloth materialized in his line of sight a moment later. "What's going on?" Steve asked, crouching next to them.

Rhodey shook his head sharply. "I'll explain later. Tony, are you with me?" he asked, pressing the cool cloth against Tony's neck and cheeks before draping it on his forehead.

"Shit," Tony said eloquently. "I swear, it wasn't this bad before." He started coughing again, and Rhodey helped him lean forward to make it a little easier.

Hurried footsteps approached and Steve gestured the doctor over. "That doesn't sound right," Doctor Harris said, kneeling in front of Rhodey and dropping her equipment bags on either side of her. She pulled out a stethoscope and listened carefully, then took Tony's pulse and checked his temperature.

"What's the verdict?" Rhodey asked.

"I'm calling an ambulance. He needs to be at the hospital."

Tony grunted.

"Do you disagree?" she asked candidly.

Tony shook his head. "No," he whispered, wheezing and trying not to cough again.

"Do you want oxygen?"

Tony took a careful inhale and still choked a little. "I'd better," he said softly. "Don't want to lose too many brain cells." He could only get out one or two words at a time and it was miserable to hear.

"Your brain cells would be perfectly safe if you were less of an idiot," Rhodey scolded.

Dr. Harris quickly got an oxygen mask onto Tony before stepping aside, her phone to her ear.

Steve seemed bewildered. "Why does Tony need to go to the hospital? Isn't it just a cold?"

Tony pulled the mask off his face slightly. "Bum lungs," he said hoarsely.

Rhodey shoved the mask back onto his face. "I'll talk. You breathe." He took a steadying breath, then adjusted the washcloth on Tony's forehead as he spoke. "What do you know about the arc reactor?"

In the time it took for the ambulance to arrive, Rhodey explained how the combination of shrapnel, palladium poisoning, and the arc reactor had done a number to Tony's lungs. "He's down to around two thirds the normal lung capacity and only about half of normal lung function from all the scarring. It makes him more vulnerable to illness," he finished as the paramedics approached.

Tony moved as if he was going to stand up, but Rhodey held him in place and the paramedics carefully lifted him onto the stretcher. Steve helped Rhodey regain his feet while Tony was buckled in and his oxygen mask was exchanged with the one the paramedics had brought.

Rhodey started toward the stretcher and Natasha appeared at his side. She shoved a bag at him. "Your lunch," she said. "Since you're going with him."

He accepted it without taking the time to look inside. "Thanks."

"You'll keep us updated." It, like the previous comment, wasn't a question.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket to check its charge. "Yep, will do."

"Will Uncle Tony be okay?" one of the kids asked tremulously. Probably Lila, she was fond of Uncle Tony.

Tony gave her a thumbs up as the paramedics raised the stretcher and started rolling it away.

Rhodey's answer was more circumspect. "We hope so," he said before hurrying to follow.

Once Tony was settled in the ambulance, Rhodey sat where he could see and reach him. "Hey, you doing okay?" he asked, gripping Tony's hand.

Tony squeezed back, but the bravado he'd put on for the kids had melted away. He looked quite ill and there was fear in his eyes. Fortunately the hospital wasn't far.

Tony's grip on Rhodey's hand faltered before they arrived.

 

Stunned silence followed the departure of the paramedics with Tony and Rhodey. Dr. Harris packed up her equipment and Steve offered to help her carry it back down to the medical floor.

He waited until they were in the elevator to speak. "What will happen?"

She shrugged. "They'll pump him full of IV antibiotics and fluids and hope for the best. He could end up on a ventilator for a while. Once he's out of the hospital he'll be looking at weeks of recovery. Pneumonia isn't kind to lungs like his."

"But he will recover," Steve said, holding onto that word so the rest couldn't concern him as much. He followed her off the elevator and she paused in the hallway where there was no one to overhear.

"I can't guarantee anything," she cautioned. "All I can say is that he's recovered in the past."

"This has happened before?"

"Don't ask me for details, I can't give them to you. But yes, from what Rhodes has told me previously, it has happened before."

He returned to the team and told them what he found out, then all they could do was wait.

 

Rhodey's first text to Nat came less than an hour after they'd left.

_He's got a room in ICU and most likely has pneumonia._

The second text came shortly thereafter.

_It's definitely pneumonia. They've got him on antibiotics._

Nat texted back. _Visitors?_

_Not yet. They're still trying to stabilize him._

_What does that mean?_

Minutes dragged by without a response. 

Finally, almost an hour later: _He's going downhill fast despite the meds._

_Should we be worried?_

_Y_


	2. Chapter 2

Rhodey's only consolation during those increasingly nightmarish hours was that the medical staff allowed him to remain at Tony's bedside. It was a relief to Tony, as well, while he was aware enough to know what was going on.

He hadn't been aware for over an hour.

Rhodey still talked to him, alternately scolding and cajoling, and held his limp hand, careful not to dislodge the IV. Tony's other hand had the little fingertip thing that contributed to the mess of numbers on the screens surrounding the bed.

Not that Tony could respond, even if he were awake enough to hear. They'd had to intubate him when the oxygen mask proved insufficient to force enough air into his struggling lungs.

That wasn't what worried Rhodey the most. That was old ground, traversed the last time this happened, not so long ago.

Failing to show improvement after a short time on the antibiotics, that was new.

Tony's blood pressure dropping and alarming the doctors, that was new.

Sitting vigil beside Tony's bedside was, unfortunately, not new, and would probably happen again if Tony pulled through this.

The fact that it was an 'if' and not a 'when' worried Rhodey the most.

 

Natasha's phone rang from its place of honor in the middle of the table and startled them all. They had just been finishing a very late dinner, ready to get up and clean up, but no one moved as Nat answered the call. "Hi, Rhodey, I'm putting you on speaker. How is he?"

"He's . . . stable, for now." Rhodey's voice sounded tired, and his hesitation in answering the question made Steve's stomach clench. "They're willing to allow up to two more visitors."

"Isn't it past visiting hours?" Steve had looked it up, once Nat told him which hospital to look for.

There was another long pause. "We have special permission," Rhodey admitted almost inaudibly.

Steve couldn't interpret the expression on Nat's face as she leaned closer to the phone. "Scale of one to ten, what are we looking at?" she asked cryptically.

"Look, is someone coming over or not? If you are, I need a few things."

"Text the list. Have you eaten since lunch?" Her tone was clipped.

"No."

"Then we'll send food as well. Now answer me, soldier: scale of one to ten," Natasha ordered.

"Ten."

Nat swore silently. "Someone will be there within a half hour," she said and hung up.

"What was the 'scale of one to ten' thing about?" Clint asked, voicing the question that was also on Steve's mind.

"Pepper and Rhodey came up with it. A one is a minor concern. The palladium poisoning was a nine." She paused. "So, who wants to go to the hospital?"

There was a moment of silence as the gravity of the situation sank in.

"I'll go," Steve said.

No one seemed surprised.

"So will I," Clint said abruptly.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware Stark was on your list of favorite people," she said dryly.

"He's not," Clint said frankly, then shrugged. "Lila would be upset if she knew I could go and didn't. And I need to yell at him for freaking out my kids."

Natasha took Sam with her to retrieve what Rhodey wanted and a few other things she thought he'd need or appreciate. She also stopped by Tony's room, debating whether to take anything of his, just in case. The room felt shrunken, somehow, without its occupant in the building. She shook herself for even acknowledging such a superstitious idea and closed the door without touching anything.

Steve and Clint collected their bags while she was away, and Wanda and Vision put together some dinner and an assortment of snacks for Rhodey. Sam pushed the wheelchair, and they loaded the food and Rhodey's stuff onto the seat for easy transportation.

No one knew what to say, so Steve and Clint left in silence.

 

Clint was never going to forget his first glimpse of Tony in the hospital bed, surrounded by tubes, invaded by tubes, so pale and still he could have been dead but for the moving lines on the monitors. In that moment, the recent conflict between them melted into irrelevance and all he could do was share his daughter's fervent wish that Uncle Tony would be okay.

Rhodey looked like he'd aged a decade, but some of the deep lines in his face seemed to ease when they entered the room. "Thanks for coming," he said wearily. "I know he hasn't endeared himself to anyone lately."

"It doesn't matter. A team has each other's backs," Steve said. "That goes for him and for you. What do you need?"

Rhodey huffed a laugh and shook his head. "I need to take a leak and take these braces off."

Steve stepped forward and offered him a hand up. Clint cleared off the wheelchair seat and piled their stuff against the wall. He handed Steve the lunchbox holding Rhodey's dinner; Steve nodded and held the case for the braces while Rhodey sat in the wheelchair.

"He's been bugging me to let him design a nicer set of wheels to go with 'those sweet braces' if I'm going to insist on using the chair sometimes," Rhodey mused, then sighed. "I should have let him."

"It will be good to have projects to occupy him while he recovers," Steve said practically, handing him the case and carefully pushing him toward the door.

"Yeah," Rhodey agreed, sounding wistful.

Then Clint was alone in a room that felt oppressive in its stillness. It wasn't quiet, not with machines beeping regularly and the steady hiss of the ventilator; the noise wasn't reassuring until he remembered what it would mean if those machines were silent.

He sank into the chair Rhodey had vacated and studied what he could see of Tony's face. "Shit, man," he breathed.

Clint continued talking because it felt better to have some sort of human noise in the blank space and he didn't stop until Steve and Rhodey returned.

 

The nurse assigned to Tony was only assigned to Tony, and she came by so regularly you could set a clock by her visits. The first time she checked on Tony when Clint, Steve, and Rhodey were all present, she offered to bring in another chair and told them to let her know if they needed anything at all. The third time she came in, Steve asked, "How is he?"

She demurred. "The doctor will be by to talk to you before he finishes his shift. I can't interpret the readings, I only collect them and make sure your friend is resting comfortably."

Rhodey spoke up as soon as she'd left. "The readings have been stable for the past two hours, so he's no worse, but usually there's some sort of noticeable improvement by now."

"You can remember the readings from several hours ago?" Clint asked in disbelief.

Rhodey held up his phone. "Tony likes having the data, so I take a picture of the readout every half hour or so."

"I didn't even notice you doing that," Clint admitted.

"I've gotten good at doing it on the sly. Some doctors get huffy about it, as if I'm going to accuse them of malpractice or something."

"How many times have you had to do this?" Steve asked. "Dr. Harris mentioned that this sort of thing has happened before."

Rhodey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "This is the second time since . . . the Accords," he said carefully. "There were three major incidents and four minor ones between Afghanistan and the Accords that I know about. He doesn't always end up in ICU, and he'd not been on a ventilator until last time."

"What happened last time?" Steve prodded when Rhodey didn't elaborate.

Rhodey just looked at him for a moment. "Siberia happened," he said bluntly. "He picked up some bug somewhere along the way, tried to hide it even while he was visiting me at Columbia. I should've noticed sooner but I didn't. When I finally did, I told him to go down to the ER. He didn't go until the next day, and by then it had gotten bad enough he spent two days on a ventilator. When they were ready to move him out of ICU, he--"

Rhodey chuckled and shook his head. "He convinced them we could share a room even though we needed completely different types of doctors. If you think he talks a lot normally, you should hear him after a nightmare when he's on all sorts of meds." He sobered and shot another glance at Steve. "He rambled about Siberia, or I'd never have found out. I can't prove that's where he got sick, but it seems the most likely explanation."

"Was he often sick before Afghanistan?" Steve asked next, realizing how little he knew about the Tony behind the publicity and the bravado despite working alongside him for some time.

"Hell no. He was always healthy as a horse, used to drive me nuts in college when the flu made the rounds and he'd stay up for days working on something and still not get sick while I went down if I was even in class with somebody sick." He paused and added thoughtfully, "Afghanistan changed just about everything for him."

The way he said it sparked Clint's curiosity. "What didn't change?"

"He's still a reckless idiot," Rhodey said fondly.

"The change in his health must have been difficult for him," Steve mused, remembering how it had felt to realize he would no longer be troubled by things like asthma. He couldn't imagine having it go the other way, to know what being healthy felt like and then have to deal with chronic lung dysfunction.

"Probably, but he's never talked about it. That's not the kind of talking he likes to do."

"We've noticed," Clint commented dryly.

A knock from the doorway halted the conversation. A disheveled doctor peered in. "Good evening, I was told you would like a word?"

"Come on in, doc," Rhodey said, evidently recognizing the man from an earlier encounter. "Our friends were hoping for an update."

"Yes, yes, of course," the doctor said almost nervously, shuffling around the folders he'd had tucked under his arm. He perched a couple on the end of the bed and they promptly slid off onto the floor. He sighed and crouched to pick up the papers that had scattered. Steve hurried to help.

When the doctor had regathered his paperwork, he muttered about the nurses hating messy charts as he piled everything in a heap. "I'll have to straighten that out later," he said absently.

"All right, your friend . . . Tony, yes. The pneumonia is severe, but fortunately we caught the sepsis early and it has not worsened. So he's stable for the moment, but we'd like to see improvement in his blood work and that hasn't happened despite being on some very potent antibiotics for six hours already. We're going to keep a close eye on him overnight and how he does will determine the course of treatment from there."

Clint sorted through all the words and recognized what wasn't being said. "How long until we know if he'll make it?" he asked, hoping for a straight answer.

"It's impossible to predict, but the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will tell us a great deal."


	3. Chapter 3

Rhodey sent an update to Nat not long after the doctor left. She called him moments later. "Does Pepper know?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. "No."

"Should I call her, or will you?"

He considered that for a minute, then sighed deeply. "I should make the call."

"Do it soon. There will be things she'll need to be ready to do if he doesn't make it."

"Right."

Nat hung up without saying another word. Rhodey stared at his phone as if willpower alone could persuade Pepper to call him so he wouldn't have to call her. No such luck. God, how he hated these calls. Steve reached over and squeezed his shoulder encouragingly.

Pepper's phone rang repeatedly with no response, then switched over to voicemail. He said tersely, "Call me," and left it at that. She would have a good idea why he'd called before he actually had to talk to her.

It was a half hour before Rhodey's phone rang. Clint had left in the meantime to hunt up some coffee; he'd offered to take Rhodey along for the ride, but Rhodey declined and Steve stayed with Rhodey. He didn't want to leave Rhodey alone for the conversation he was about to have. It was the least he could do.

Rhodey slowly lifted the phone to his ear. "Pepper," he said heavily. "Where are you?"

Steve couldn't hear what Pepper said.

"Yes, this is about Tony . . . it's bad." Rhodey explained what happened, occasionally pausing as Pepper interjected with questions. Eventually, he fell silent for several long moments, shaking his head slowly.

"Look, you aren't listening to me. I don't know when they might release him. I'm saying he may not leave. This is a ten, Pepper, and you need to be ready to do what you have to do if the owner of the company . . ." His voice broke more with each syllable until he couldn't force another word out.

Rhodey covered his face with his hand. Steve moved to stand behind him and rested his hands on Rhodey's shaking shoulders.

By the time Clint returned, carefully carrying three steaming cups of cafeteria coffee, the phone call was over and Rhodey had composed himself.

Rhodey took a small sip from his cup and grimaced. "I think even Tony would have trouble drinking this, and he's downed a lot of crappy coffee."

Clint raised his cup toward the bed. "I look forward to having him try it."

 

Time in the ICU was marked by the regular rounds of the nurses and periodic visits from the phlebotomist to take another round of blood for tests. Other than that, there was nothing to do besides watching the machines and talking to those sharing the vigil. If Tony had been doing the waiting, he would've been on his phone or another device or even a holographic interface of some sort, but Steve, Clint, and Rhodey were too polite to outright ignore the others.

So they talked. Steve sometimes forgot that Rhodey and Clint weren't on the Avengers team at the same time and thus didn't know each other as well as he knew each of them. Even then, he couldn't claim to know either of them truly well, and Rhodey knew Tony better than anyone.

Stories were exchanged until nearly midnight, when Steve and Clint persuaded Rhodey to get some sleep. He conceded only on the condition that they continue taking photos of the readouts every half hour and that they wake him immediately should anything change for good or ill. They readily agreed, so Rhodey rolled himself into a corner, leaned his head back against the wall, and went to sleep.

The nurse--a new one by now, thanks to shift change--offered to bring a few blankets and dim the lights slightly so they could rest. Steve spread one of the blankets over Rhodey, but Clint just hugged his legs to his chest, rested his chin on his knees, and said he was fine.

Steve took the first watch, which ended up lasting until after five a.m. because he didn't want to wake anyone. It would have lasted longer, but Clint woke up and insisted he take his turn. Steve stretched out on the floor by their belongings, wrapped himself in a blanket, and used his bag for a pillow.

Then Clint was the lone guardian, left to contemplate in the company of the murmuring machines. Laura called once the kids were awake so they could say good morning to Daddy, then she sent the Cooper and Lila to get dressed while she talked to him a little longer.

"Are you sure you're okay with the kids? I can come back if you need me," he said.

She laughed at him. "Who has been running the farm all these years? We're fine. I've got the rest of the team here to babysit if I decide I want some time alone. Stay. They need you there."

"I'll call at bedtime," he promised, and hoped there would be better news to report by then.

 

The new day brought what seemed like a parade of medical personnel through Tony's room. There were the nurses, of course, checking the monitors, tending to his tubes, and once even loosening the straps holding the breathing tube to wipe down the skin underneath. The vampires (as Clint called the phlebotomists) also continued making periodic appearances.

The biggest addition was the doctors who would mostly hover in the doorway, murmuring to one another--they always came in clumps of at least two, more often three--before disappearing again. Their appearance was usually followed by another visit from the nurses to adjust medication or, in one case, a tech bringing a mobile x-ray machine to check on Tony's lungs. Or that was Rhodey's guess, anyway. The doctors never actually talked to them, and Clint tried to get Rhodey to bet with him on whether the reason was that they didn't have anything useful to say or that they were intimidated by Captain America lurking beside their patient.

As the hours dragged on, Clint and Steve took turns going out into the hallways to walk around for a while. Rhodey steadfastly refused to leave Tony's side. Clint hoped that a doctor or two would wander in so he could interrogate them without Steve's awe-inspiring presence, but the doctors predictably never showed up while Steve was roaming the halls. His attempts to elicit information from the nurses always failed miserably.

Rhodey dozed off at one point so Clint took the next scheduled photograph, then took a few silly selfies just because he could. He hoped to make Rhodey laugh; the man increasingly looked like his frown creases were etched in stone.

Clint almost thought he'd have to take the next picture too, but Rhodey abruptly awoke five minutes before the half hour had passed. "Coffee?" Clint asked while Rhodey rubbed his face and yawned.

"Sure. Thanks."

It was getting near early bird dinner time, so it took longer to retrieve the coffee than Clint originally intended. At least it was fresh, for whatever good that did.

Rhodey was studying his phone when Clint returned. He waited until Clint had set down Steve's cup before holding the phone out to him. "Take a look at the photos in sequence. Do you see what I see?"

He'd brought up an earlier photo and Clint swiped through the images once, then went back and looked at them again. "A couple of the numbers have increased a bit. What is that, the blood pressure?"

"Yeah, that's the blood pressure. The oxygen level is up a point, too. That has to be a good thing, right?"

"You're the one that's done this before, not me. But yeah, I would think so."

"It probably doesn't mean much," Rhodey concluded, sounding melancholy.

"It has to be better than staying the same like he's been doing," Clint said pragmatically. "We can hope."

They needed all the hope they could get.

 

The doctor that finally stayed in the room long enough to tell them what was going on was the same disheveled doctor as the night before. This time he didn't have an armful of papers to drop, just a tablet computer that he seemed uncomfortable with even touching. He tucked it awkwardly into a large pocket on his white coat, then seemed a little frustrated that he couldn't shove his hands into his pockets.

He cleared his throat, then took off his glasses and fiddled with them. Clint was reminded of Bruce and wished he was there. He may not be that kind of doctor, but he was good at getting people to talk. "We've noticed some of the numbers going up. Is that good?" Clint asked pointedly, hoping to needle the doctor into responding.

Finally, the doctor spoke, glancing up at them before returning his gaze to the square of tile immediately in front of his toes. "You're watching more closely than most. Your friend's blood pressure has recovered somewhat and we believe we may have finally found a medication cocktail that he will respond to effectively."

He ummed and ahhed for a moment, as if searching for the right words. "His condition remains quite serious, but his chances are marginally better than yesterday."

"So he could still die," Rhodey said bleakly.

"Yes," the doctor replied a nod.

"When will we know if he's going to recover?" Steve asked, trying to take the conversation in a more positive direction.

The doctor shrugged. "The longer he holds on, the better the odds are, but we won't know for sure until he recovers."

 

The second night went much like the first. Before he went to sleep, Rhodey tried to convince Clint and Steve to wake him for his turn overnight. They verbally agreed, but Steve woke Clint around three and neither of them even considered disturbing Rhodey.

Steve had spent most of his watch pacing the room, but even so he felt restless and unable to sleep. Eventually, and without even looking back at him, Clint said blandly, "Why don't you go back to the compound and punch something for a while? Or go for a run or whatever. You're driving me crazy."

"It would be good to check in with the team in person," Steve agreed hesitantly, sitting up and rubbing his face. "Are you sure you'll be all right here alone?"

"Tony and Rhodey are here, and the nurse is in here every ten minutes on the dot. I don't think that counts as being alone."

Steve didn't dignify that with a response. "Anything I should bring back with me?"

"Instant coffee," Clint replied immediately. "And if Wanda has the urge to bake something, I'd never say no. Bring a separate plate for you and Rhodey, if you want."

"How generous," Steve said dryly. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"If I see you before lunch, I'm banning you from the room."

"Good luck with that."

"The colonel will back me up."

"You'll need a little more than that."

"The whole team is a text away. Now get out of here."

Steve raised a hand in farewell as he left the room. Clint glanced over at Rhodey, who slept on, undisturbed. He heaved a sigh and checked the time; he had a few minutes yet until the next photo. Tony's blood pressure had crept up another couple of points and was getting within striking distance of the normal range according to the information he could find online. What that meant and how they'd keep track of how he was doing once he hit normal, Clint wasn't sure, but that would be a good problem to have.


	4. Chapter 4

Nat called Clint while he was in the hospital cafeteria retrieving breakfast for himself and Rhodey, so he called her back when he'd returned to the room. "What's up?"

"Pepper wants to see him."

"Not a good idea," he said immediately, staring at the still figure on the bed. Between all of the medical equipment, his pallor, and not shaving for several days, Tony hardly looked like himself.

"That's what I thought. Ask Rhodey."

"Here, do it yourself," Clint said, putting his phone on speaker and holding it up between him and Rhodey.

Nat repeated her question. Rhodey repeated Clint's words, then added, "She'll freak out if she sees him like this, you know she will. She's never been good at handling the messy parts."

"I know. That's why I'm already talking her out of flying here."

"Will a photo be enough?" Clint asked.

"Take a few and I'll decide."

"Check with Laura, too. She's good at that sort of thing."

"Yes, I'm aware." Nat sounded amused. "And I have good news: you're going to be popular with the staff once Steve gets back to the hospital."

"Oh?"

"Wanda has been helping Vision learn some new recipes. You're going to have baked goods in plenty."

"Awesome. Maybe bribery is the way to get them to tell us things."

"Can't hurt." Nat fell silent. "I should go. I'm supposed to be the seeker for hide and seek with the kids."

"Who's winning?"

"Vision. It's difficult to find someone who can phase through solid objects."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed."

When he was done eating, Clint moved his tray and stood to take a few photos of Tony. Rhodey had a few useful comments about angles and lighting, then helped him decide which of the options to send to Nat and Laura.

That task complete, they returned once again to waiting.

 

Steve returned just after noon with lunch and a bag full of baked goods to share. Most of the containers he took out to the nurses' station. He was gone far longer than Clint thought he should be, so he went to investigate after he'd finished his share of chili.

Rhodey was still eating when Clint returned. "Didn't expect you back so soon," he commented.

"Neither did I, but it looks like Steve is having a heart-to-heart with a pretty nurse and who am I to get in the way of that?"

"Right," Rhodey said dubiously.

Steve reappeared about fifteen minutes later. He stood at the end of Tony's bed and just looked at him for a moment, then turned his attention to Clint and Rhodey. "He's improving, little by little," he said.

"Who was that?" Clint asked.

"The nurse supervisor on duty," Steve said offhandedly as he sat in his chair. "Her name is Nikki and she really liked the cookies. There are things she told me that I don't understand, but she definitely said his numbers are better than they've been in the past forty-eight hours."

"Good," Rhodey said with a heavy sigh. "That's . . . that's good."

Doctor not-Bruce confirmed what Nikki-the-nurse-supervisor had said during his daily visit that evening. "He is responding reasonably well to the current medication regimen and we have seen some improvement in his condition as a result," he said vaguely.

"So he's getting better," Steve clarified.

"He has progressed a few small increments, yes, but he remains quite ill and the tables can turn quickly."

"So he's not out of danger," Clint interpreted.

"Correct."

"Is it safe to let the rest of the team visit?" Steve asked.

The doctor hesitated. "We would prefer to keep visitors at a minimum for contamination reasons. Any additional strain on his immune system would . . . not help."

 

The third day was much like the second, except it was Clint's turn to go back to the compound for a while. He ate breakfast with the rest of the team, then spent the remainder of the morning with his family, which included a nap with Nathaniel while Laura did school stuff with Cooper and Lila.

Clint returned to the hospital around mid-afternoon, already aware that there continued to be minute improvements in Tony's condition but nothing dramatic had happened. Which was fine; slow improvement was better than a dramatic decline. But was it really too much to hope for dramatic improvement?

That night after Rhodey was asleep, Clint and Steve debated how to convince him to return to the compound for a few hours. He'd not left the hospital since arriving, had barely even left Tony's bedside, and the strain was visibly wearing on him.

Clint had an idea that Steve was willing to allow, so Clint sent a message to Laura briefly explaining what he hoped to do. She called him as soon as she was awake the next morning to discuss it, and agreed it just might work.

When Rhodey woke up, Clint surreptitiously notified Laura. A few minutes later, Clint's phone rang. "Good morning," he said cheerfully. Clint's family calling him each morning had become part of the routine, so Rhodey didn't even glance over as Clint briefly talked to Laura and each of the kids in turn.

Then Clint turned to Rhodey. "They want to talk to you," he said, offering his phone.

Rhodey looked surprised, but took it. Clint knew roughly what would be said, so he stood up and slowly made a circuit of the room while Rhodey talked to the kids and then Laura. Finally, Rhodey sighed heavily and said, "All right, if you insist."

"What's up?" Clint asked as he returned to his seat after Rhodey had hung up.

"Don't give me that, you put them up to it," Rhodey retorted as he tossed Clint his phone.

"Only a little. I told you yesterday everyone was asking about you and that still wasn't enough, so we had to resort to the big guns."

"I'm not sure what it says about your parenting that you consider your kids big guns."

"They're master manipulators. I'd blame Nat, but they seem to have been born with that skill."

Steve made a show of sitting up and stretching; Clint had noticed he was awake while Rhodey was still on the phone. "Morning, Steve," Clint greeted him. "Uncle Rhodey is going to go have breakfast with the kids. Want to drive him?"


	5. Chapter 5

Clint realized after Steve and Rhodey left that it might have been better to go get his own breakfast while they were still there to sit with Tony. He shrugged it off and decided it wouldn't be the end of the world to leave Tony alone for like ten minutes while he went to the cafeteria. After all, there were nurses nearby and monitors that would beep shrilly if anything was awry.

And indeed, nothing happened while he was gone. Tony remained absolutely still in the bed, the ventilator continued breathing for him, and the nurse checked on him once while Clint was absent. Clint settled in his chair and began eating, periodically glancing over at Tony. It was getting creepy, how unnaturally immobile and silent he was.

Then in one glance, it looked like Tony's eyes were open slightly. He immediately did a double-take, but Tony's eyes were closed just like they had been all along. Clint humphed at himself and continued chewing. Great. Now he was seeing things.

A few hours later, he turned to take the photo of the readings and when he turned back toward the bed, he could have sworn he saw Tony's fingers move slightly. Clint stared at Tony's hand for nearly five minutes but there was no sign of life. Then he tried prodding Tony's hand; no reaction.

The next time the nurse came in, she was accompanied by a woman who looked like the nurse Steve had been chatting up the day before. He debated whether to say anything, but decided there was nothing to be lost in asking. "Excuse me, I have a silly question," he said when the second nurse stopped near him to watch the regular nurse do her duties.

"What's that?" she asked with a small smile.

"Is it possible that he moved his hand a little while ago? He hasn't moved for days and I'm not sure that's what I saw, but it seemed like he moved."

She looked thoughtful. "Let me check his chart. Amber, may I?"

The nurse--Amber--handed her the tablet she'd been using to enter her observations.

Maybe-Nikki skimmed the information quickly. "He's been on a paralytic and a sedative, but the doctors decided to wean him off the paralytic starting this morning. It's unlikely he's moving already, but it's possible."

A paralytic. That explained the uncanny stillness. "How long will it take until he's fully off the paralytic? What might happen when he is?"

"The last small dose will be administered tonight, so it will have worn off completely by this time tomorrow. You're likely to see him make small, involuntary movements, but he might also respond to some touch. He won't react fully to outside stimuli until he's also taken off the sedative."

"When will that be?"

"If he doesn't start fighting against the ventilator, they'll probably start reducing the dose of sedative sometime tomorrow. That's how it usually goes, at least."

"Why is he on both?"

"The paralytic keeps the body from fighting against the breathing tube, primarily, and the sedative makes sure the patient isn't awake and freaking out about not being able to move. It also allows the body to have more energy for healing itself if the patient isn't trying to be awake and interacting with their environment."

"He must be doing pretty well if they're willing to take him off it," Clint said neutrally, hoping for a positive answer.

"He's doing better than he had been," maybe-Nikki said cautiously. "They usually try to withdraw those medications as soon as it makes sense to, in order to minimize the side effects."

"Thanks for the information," Clint replied thoughtfully.

After the nurses left, he stared at Tony, debating. Rhodey would want to know, would want to be there in case Tony did start moving or even woke up, but once Tony did wake, nothing short of the world ending (and possibly not even that) was going to get Rhodey away from Tony's side, and who knew how long Tony would need to be in the hospital.

It was the best news they'd had so far and Clint thought he might burst with the anticipation of sharing it, but he waited the nearly six hours until Steve and Rhodey returned to the hospital before he told them.

And if, while waiting, he periodically squeezed Tony's hand just to see if there would be a reaction, well, no one else was there to comment on his optimism.

 

Just as predicted, for the rest of that day and through the night Tony never really responded to his hand being squeezed, and not for lack of trying. His fingers would occasionally twitch and his eyes move behind his eyelids; it wasn't conscious on his part, but they rejoiced to see it.

Clint found it more difficult to sleep that night. Tony was still sedated and wasn't going to wake up, so what was he expecting to happen? In any case, Rhodey had the same problem, and they were both awake in the early hours while Steve took his turn to sleep. Steve, of course, seemed to have no trouble sleeping whatsoever.

There was occasional conversation but mostly Clint and Rhodey sat in companionable silence. Rhodey never let go of Tony's hand.

The day utterly dragged by, the optimism of the previous day worn away by the drudgery of their vigil until even Tony's periodic twitching lost its novelty. They hoped for some sort of update from the staff about Tony's status now that he was off one medication, but Nikki evidently wasn't working that day, none of the other nurses would tell them anything, and the doctors never stayed long enough to be asked.

Doctor not-Bruce finally paid them an evening visit to explain that Tony was remaining sufficiently stable that they were going to cease administering the sedative following that night's dose. "He might continue to be given smaller doses at night to guarantee he is resting comfortably, but during the day he will be more aware of his surroundings. Also, even though we will no longer be giving him the sedative, it is very possible that he will not wake up enough to acknowledge you in the first several days," the doctor cautioned. "He remains very ill, and that exhausts the body."

"We understand," Steve said confidently. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. He's still got a long way to go."

 

Waiting for Tony to wake up was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of Clint's life. He'd had a lot of experience with watching and waiting, but there he was waiting for the right moment to do something. Here, there was nothing for him to do.

Rhodey, on the other hand, had some idea of what to watch for and knew that Tony wasn't going to do anything dramatic until at least afternoon. He still watched Tony like a hawk, though, and clutched his hand as if Tony would get lost otherwise.

Steve paced the room, the hallway, and then the entire floor. He did best when there was something to arrange, tactics to plan, and none of that was useful here. Occasionally he wondered why he stayed but that thought never lasted long. He needed to be there, to prove to anyone who doubted that he still cared about Tony despite everything that had happened between them. That was politics; this was family, or the closest thing to it that he could claim.

Tony definitely began to react more to his environment as the hours passed. Once or twice Clint could have sworn he tried to turn his head toward them, but either the breathing tube or sheer exhaustion prevented it. Sometimes he seemed to be listening to them talk, and Rhodey swore that Tony squeezed his hand a couple of times.

When Clint and Steve returned from retrieving lunch, Rhodey claimed that their departure had made Tony furrow his eyebrows as if puzzled or concerned and that the expression left his face when he heard their voices again. Clint was skeptical, but Rhodey looked so pleased he didn't want to be the one to rain on his parade.

As it turned out, Rhodey was right to be optimistic: Tony attempted to open his eyes less than an hour later.

He didn't make it far. There was just the barest crack between his lids before his eyes were closing again and he clenched his hands in pain or effort or both. Then he seemed to be trying to make a noise, but the breathing tube was in the way and he choked in the attempt. "Tony, Tony, calm down, don't fight the tube. We're here and we'll stay here. You can try again in a little while," Rhodey reassured him, holding Tony's hand in both of his.

Tony stilled and didn't stir for the next hour.

 

At first the sheer amount of noise suddenly invading his quiet cocoon was overwhelming, too many types of sounds hitting all at once for him to have any hope of interpreting any of it.

After a while he could filter out the background noise, the mechanical-type sounds that he didn't recognize but at least he could determine they weren't important. The other noise, the voices, that was important, especially when he realized he knew some of those voices.

Eventually the voices resolved into words, most of which were still beyond his understanding--along with where he was and why--but the cadence was soothing and the tones reassuring.

Any sort of response was beyond him and he knew it, but he yearned to see the faces that belonged to the voices, so he gathered himself for an attempt.

His eyelids felt weighted with lead and he could barely move them. His hands clenched as he fought for sight and his breath hitched painfully. He groaned in frustration but his groan was stifled by something in his throat and he gagged reflexively, unable to feel anything else now that he was aware of the invasion. All his throat was pain and his senses decided that was quite enough and shut down for a while to recover.

As soon as he was aware of the voices again, he resumed the attempt to lift his resistant eyelids. He made it a little farther and fisted his hand in triumph. Then there was a hand holding his and he had a moment's thought that there was a way he could try to communicate, but the thought flitted away and was lost.

On his next attempt, his eyes opened far enough that the influx of light was abrupt and painful and once again he couldn't cope with the input and his ability to process anything went offline temporarily.

When he opened his eyes again after that, all he could really see were shapes and the contrast between light and dark. Also he couldn't hold it for long but at least he didn't pass out this time so he heard joy in the voices as they flowed over him. Once his hand was free, he moved his fingers experimentally, just able to form the shapes he had remembered sometime between his previous waking and this one.

After that he needed a rest. Next time, though . . . next time, he thought he could do it.

 

It took two more attempts to communicate with the voices.

The first time, his vision was clear enough to make out the room surrounding him, and he had just enough time for three things to pass through his mind. He recognized Rhodey at his bedside. He was confused by the absence of anyone else that would correspond with the voices he thought he'd recognized before. And he realized it took far more effort to keep his eyes open than it seemed like it should.

The next time he surfaced from the oblivion, he heard all three voices he'd heard before and he knew it was the right time if he could muster the strength.

He took his time peeling his eyes open, listening as Rhodey argued with someone (Barton, his mind finally found the name). He didn't pay attention to what they were arguing about, that would have taken too much time and energy.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he became aware of a broad-shouldered person standing at the end of his bed, watching him. Rogers. That was the other voice he'd heard. He'd have to ponder later about why he, of all people, was there. And Barton, for that matter.

His right hand was being held, so he shifted his gaze to see. Rhodey, of course. He tapped Rhodey's hand with his fingers and his hand was released as all eyes in the room focused on him.

He couldn't lift his hand much, but it was enough.

 

Steve was puzzled when Tony began moving his hand and fingers in odd ways. Both Rhodey and Clint seemed to know what he was doing, though, and they broke into matching grins when Tony's hand stilled.

"Yeah, you sure did," Rhodey said, sounding a little choked up. He patted Tony's hand. "Go back to sleep, we'll be here."

Tony gave a brief thumbs up as his eyes closed again.

"What-" Steve started to ask.

Clint answered, "He spelled 'I made it'."


	6. Chapter 6

Making it was only the very first small step on a long road to recovery, which Rhodey knew all too well. Tony likely also recognized that--or he would, when he was awake enough--but admitting it wasn't his style.

Even without the sedative, Tony spent more time asleep than awake for the first several days, and when he was awake, he didn't often try to communicate beyond answering yes or no questions.

As his wakefulness increased, so did his expressiveness. It got so they could tell how he was feeling by how much he was gesturing. Clint was regularly impressed at how much Tony managed to convey with only the upper half of his face, his spelling, and the few rudimentary signs at his disposal. He offered to teach Tony more of the signs that might be useful to him, but Tony declined. _Too much work._

Finally, a week and a half after Tony first arrived at the hospital, the not-Bruce doctor told them Tony could have more visitors. Tony vehemently signaled his disapproval.

"But the team wants to see you," Steve objected.

Tony tapped the breathing tube.

"You want to wait until the tube is gone," Rhodey interpreted.

Tony gave a thumbs-up.

"We have already been reducing the amount of help the ventilator provides," the doctor said. "We're not quite to the point of letting him try to breathe without it."

After the doctor left, Tony tapped on Rhodey's hand and spelled _Rachel_.

Rhodey frowned. "I thought you didn't like her."

_No._

"You sure? I'm sure they have someone here already."

_R-a-c--_

"All right, fine, we'll contact her. No guarantees."

Tony rolled his eyes.

"Rachel is the respiratory therapist he had at Columbia," Rhodey said before either Steve or Clint could speak. "He complained about her endlessly."

"But if she knows what she's doing . . ." Clint said.

"She kept him in line, and that's no mean feat."

Tony's eyebrows scowled. They pretended not to notice.

 

Late the next afternoon, their game of cards came to a halt when they heard a commotion at the nurses' station a short distance down the hallway. Even Tony, who had been dozing, listened as a woman's voice rose until it was audible above the noise of the machines. "I've showed you my ID, my credentials, and the request for my services. Now tell me where my patient is or I'm going to start raising hell."

Tony tapped the bed's railing to get their attention, but before he could start spelling, Rhodey said, "I know. I'll go handle it."

"Rachel?" Clint guessed as Rhodey left the room.

_Yes._

When Rhodey returned, he was holding Rachel's bag while she pushed his wheelchair to the bedside. She crossed her arms and regarded Tony, ignoring the rest of the room for the moment. "So we meet again," she said at last.

Tony waved a little.

"You'd better make this worth my while, if I'm going to have to deal with nurses like that the entire time."

He shrugged, then rubbed his fingers together.

Her stern expression melted as she laughed. "Yes, I'm aware that you're wealthy. Let's get down to business." She took her bag from Rhodey and pulled out a stethoscope. She listened to Tony's breathing from the front, then helped him shift forward so she could do the same on the back. Then she told him to inhale as if he was breathing without any assistance while she had a hand on his chest and the stethoscope against his back.

She made sure Tony was settled comfortably again before she hooked her stethoscope around her neck, absentmindedly swinging her long red-blonde braid out of the way, and crossed her arms again. "Have they tried taking you off the vent yet?"

_No._

She frowned. "I need to see your chart. Do I have to prepare for a pitched battle to get it?"

"I can go with you to ask," Steve offered. "The nurses seem to like us."

She looked him up and down. "Of course they do, honey," she said, then added, "I'm sorry, I never introduced myself: Rachel O'Leary, respiratory therapist. What shall I call you?"

"I'm Steve, and that's Clint," Steve answered.

Clint saluted. "I can't quite place your accent. From the last name, I'm guessing Irish?"

"Not quite. No offense, but I'm not here to chat about my background. I'm here to get this one"--she gestured with a thumb at Tony, who looked ready to fall asleep--"back on his feet. Again."

Steve went with her to the nurses' station and they returned very shortly thereafter accompanied by Nikki, who was apologizing profusely for the earlier misunderstanding. "I knew you might be coming but I hadn't been able to notify the next shift yet, so of course I was away from the desk when you arrived," she said ruefully.

"No harm done," Rachel replied absently, her attention absorbed by the information on the tablet she held. "Why the hell haven't they done a wean screen on him yet? He's not been on the sedative for five days, it's well past time to get him off the vent."

"They wanted to wait until at least tomorrow, to be on the safe side. The doctors have been concerned about how the preexisting damage to his lungs will affect his recovery."

Rachel went to the ventilator and examined the settings, then consulted the tablet again. "They're underestimating him," she said shortly. "The only real concern at this point is whether he can cough properly after having a machine breathe for him so long."

Clint watched their interaction with fascination. He had only the vaguest idea what Rachel was talking about, but her obvious irritation with the way Tony had been handled definitely put Nikki on the defensive. He felt bad for her; she was only following what she'd been told. At the same time, Rachel struck him as ruthlessly competent, so if she thought Tony could do something, it seemed likely that she was right.

Rachel pressed a few buttons on the ventilator, then handed the tablet back to Nikki. "You can enter that I started a spontaneous breathing trial at, what time is it? Fifteen thirty-four."

"Is there anything you would like us to prepare for you?" Nikki asked as she made the entry. Her voice did not betray her thoughts on the matter.

"If he tolerates this, we'll maintain these settings overnight and evaluate for extubation in the morning."

Nikki nodded and left without another word.

"What does that mean?" Steve asked.

"We're letting Tony try breathing for himself for a while," Rachel answered. "The ventilator still provides oxygen, but he has to inhale it. If that works well, the tube could be removed as early as tomorrow."

 

Rachel's confidence in Tony proved correct, for he managed the change in ventilator settings without complaint or problem. Knowing that Tony was breathing more or less for himself made Clint a little paranoid that something would happen overnight while Rachel wasn't there to intervene, but the night passed uneventfully.

Tony appeared more tired that morning than had become normal, though the machine readouts hadn't changed. _Breathing is hard_ , he joked as he fell back asleep after only a few minutes awake.

Rhodey didn't seem surprised, Steve looked worried, and Clint studied Rachel's reactions in an attempt to figure out if they should be concerned. "He's doing just fine," she reassured them.

Tony slept almost all morning. When he woke up again, he was more alert and picked a fight with Rhodey over Rhodey not budging from his bedside in days. Again. Clint just watched in amusement, but Steve intervened to break it up, worried that Tony would exhaust himself. With Steve's encouragement (if you could call it that when he was threatening to sideline Rhodey for not taking sufficient care of himself), Rhodey agreed to accompany him back to the compound for the afternoon under the pretense of retrieving some personal items for Tony.

Rachel returned as Steve and Rhodey were leaving. When she opened her mouth to speak, Tony motioned urgently for her to remain silent until Rhodey was out of earshot. Clint monitored their progress from the door and gave a thumbs up when they had turned the corner.

"I'm not even going to ask," Rachel said, shaking her head. "I came to check you over to see if we can get this tube out today."

Tony indicated his assent and she went through a procedure similar to what she'd done the previous day, listening to his lungs while he breathed and coughed.

After a while, she nodded. "We can do this," she said confidently. "I'll need to pull some things together, but you'll be able to talk again by dinnertime."

 _Before Rhodey gets back_ , Tony suggested.

"We can manage that," she said agreeably.

Within the hour she and Nikki had a whole tray of equipment standing by, along with a different machine and a variety of tubes. Rachel explained to Tony what she was going to do; he understood much more quickly than Clint, probably because he'd done it before, so Clint wasn't sure exactly what was happening even as it began to happen.

There was talk of oxygen and breathing deeply and then Rachel was swiftly sliding the tube out and Tony was coughing even as she strapped a mask onto his face. "Good job, Tony, you're doing a fantastic job," Rachel murmured absently as she listened to his breathing and watched the monitor. "Breathe a little deeper now . . . yes, there, like that."

Clint watched, fascinated, from the opposite side of the bed. Tony eventually noticed and gave him a weary thumbs up, not trying to talk around the mask.

After maybe a half hour with the mask, it was traded for a tube that hooked up to Tony's nose. Rachel took a deep breath once that was connected and operating the way she wanted, then sighed and turned to Nikki. "A cup of ice water for him, please?"

"So what just happened?" Clint asked. He wanted the details to report to Rhodey upon his return, since he was unlikely to be pleased he'd missed it.

"We removed the tube, then administered some medication via nebulizer to help ease the swelling in his throat that the tube can cause. He's getting supplemental oxygen through this high flow nasal cannula for now; I'll move him down to a standard cannula as soon as he's breathing well enough," Rachel explained patiently. "He can now talk and eat and drink, though his throat will be sore for a few days."

Tony was touching his face and frowning as he scratched at his cheeks. _Shave?_

"If one of your friends will do it for you," Rachel said.

Tony sighed and sagged against the pillows.

Nikki returned with a styrofoam cup complete with lid and straw and handed it to Rachel. Rachel set it down for Tony, who took it carefully and sipped it slowly. "Ow," he whispered.

"Sore throat lozenges or sprays might help," Rachel said helpfully. "The pain will last longer this time than it did before because you had the tube in a lot longer."

Tony nodded. Clint texted Steve to request one or both of those things "for when the tube comes out." It wasn't a lie, not exactly.

Rhodey didn't seem as upset to have missed the whole process as Clint expected, but he didn't get a chance to ask about that until Tony woke up coughing in the wee hours of the next morning.

 _He nearly passed out watching last time_ , Tony signed between sips of water from his cup. He'd tried talking a little when Steve and Rhodey had returned, but his throat was raw and painful so his voice was rough and weak. _Wants to be here, can't stand to watch everything._

Having now seen and heard things he'd never forget, Clint could understand. Hospitals truly weren't for the faint of heart.

 

God, he hated hospitals. The worst part was knowing he still needed to be there. He was slowly clawing his way back to something like health, sure. But he could feel exhaustion tugging at his limbs no matter how much he slept, his chest ached and burned, and now his throat was raw agony when he swallowed no matter how many sprays or lozenges he tried. Having that infernal tube out was worth it, but ow.

Rachel was a cruel vixen who forced breathing treatments on him twice a day that made him cough up and choke on the gunk clogging his lungs, which was painful and unpleasant and left him more weary than he'd thought was possible. And then she had a physical therapist start coming in, too, and that was just too much even though the guy was nice and didn't work him nearly as hard as she did.

Through it all the same three people were there, and he had a question about that he could only voice to Rhodey but he could never seem to manage to be awake when just Rhodey was there.

Then, finally, he was awake when the other two left to get food (they kept offering him food as well, but he wasn't interested in angering his throat further). As soon as they were gone, he croaked, "Why are they here?"

"What?"

_You heard me._

"Why wouldn't they be here? Everyone is concerned about you, and they're the ones that stepped up and volunteered to spend endless hours watching you sleep. You got a problem with that?"

_Other side._

"The lines have shifted, Tony. There shouldn't be sides anymore. Or have you forgotten we're supposed to be a team?"

Tony raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a skeptical look.

"Are you really going to be like that? No, never mind, I shouldn't be surprised. Okay, look: I'm here for you. You know that. They're here for you, too, but they're also here because I can't do this on my own." He gestured toward the array of medical equipment. "You've been here two weeks already and I'm guessing you won't be allowed to leave for a while yet. I physically can't be the only one sitting with you all the time, so unless you want to be alone sometimes, you're going to have to deal with them being here."

Under normal circumstances, alone would be highly preferable to dealing with Rogers. Or Barton. But stuck in the hospital, chained to machines, still reeling from how close he had come to not waking up again and anxious about how long it would take to recover . . . 

Rhodey took his proffered hand and Tony gripped it firmly. "I'll behave," he promised.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: this story was supposed to be a fun, short little fill while I figured out some things for an epic-length WIP. I thought this fic was complete when I started posting it here, but y'all's thoughtful comments have pointed out a few things that I hadn't given enough thought to. So I've been reviewing, revising, and in some cases writing some new stuff to fill in the holes for the chapters that have yet to be posted, starting with this one. Hopefully it helps. The remaining flaws are still my fault.
> 
> Thanks for your comments!

As he watched Tony fall asleep again, Rhodey reflected that he may have been too hard on him--it's not like Tony didn't have good reason to be suspicious of Steve in particular. But at the same time, Tony had been stubborn about accepting any peaceful overtures from anyone on Cap's team before he'd gotten sick, so it's not like he was completely out of line to want Tony to behave himself.

Still, it takes two to tango . . . he eyed Steve and Clint as they returned. "He asked why you're here," Rhodey said without preamble.

Steve stiffened, but Clint just nodded. "It's a fair question, I expected it sooner. Are we bothering him? Should we leave?"

"He didn't say so, but you should know I've got my eye on both of you. I appreciate that you're here to spell me, but not if it's at his expense. You stress him out, freak him out, or even just make him uncomfortable, you're gone. Got it?"

"I hear you loud and clear," Clint said easily, handing him a plate of food.

Steve hesitated. "We don't mean him harm, surely he knows that."

"After what happened? I think some suspicion is perfectly reasonable," Rhodey retorted.

Steve flinched. "I've told him I'd like to mend things between us, but he hasn't replied in kind. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Hasn't replied in kind?" Rhodey repeated disbelievingly. "It's not often that those who betray him are even allowed back into his life. He's giving you a chance, Rogers, but you have to prove yourself. Be a help, not a hindrance. Show him you've got his back the way you were supposed to all along."

Steve was silent, then said quietly, "I still disagree about the Accords."

"Then help him make them better."

Steve took a long, slow breath, then nodded slowly. "What did you tell him about why we're here?"

Rhodey waved dismissively. "Something lame and unconvincing. I wouldn't have believed me. What would you say if he asks?"

"I told him a while ago that I'd be there if he needed me, so here I am."

Rhodey wasn't convinced, but he didn't press the issue. "What about you, Barton?"

"I'm here because Lila loves her Uncle Tony," Clint started, then shrugged. "And there are things I thought and said about him that weren't true or fair, but even so he made sure Laura and the kids were kept safe. I'm in his debt for it."

Rhodey looked at him thoughtfully. "That, I believe. Will you both promise me that you'll make yourselves scarce if he is at all uncomfortable? It's a little hard to be a bouncer from a wheelchair, but I'll do it if I have to."

"We'll leave if it would help," Clint said immediately and Steve nodded in agreement.

Rhodey hoped that would be enough.

 

The evening's breathing treatment was less productive than usual but even Rachel pounding him on the back didn't help, so Tony went to sleep exhausted, aching, and congested. He dreamed of the cave and immersion in freezing water and fears of drowning.

He woke coughing harshly, gasping for breath. He grew lightheaded before he remembered he had to breathe in through his nose if he wanted the help of the oxygen. The coughing accomplished what it hadn't earlier, and he blindly reached for the little plastic basin. Suddenly it was in his hand and he gagged and spit several times until the coughing spell passed.

Once he could breathe well enough to pay attention to something other than pulling air into his lungs, he found he was leaning on something warm. Or, more accurately, draped over something warm, which turned out to be Rogers's arm.

"Are you all right?" He felt the words as much as heard them, and there was a note of worry in the tone.

"Um, yeah. Thanks." He slid the little basin onto the table and snagged his water cup as Rogers helped him shift back onto his pillows.

"Should I call Rachel? That sounded uncomfortable."

"No, I'm good," he said, then took a long draw from his straw. He got only a little water before the straw made the empty sucking sound.

"I can get you more water," Rogers offered.

Tony looked at his cup and then at Rogers, considering. "Thanks," he said finally, handing him the cup.

When his cup was returned full of lovely cold water, Tony focused on that rather than the hovering supersoldier. He didn't know quite what to make of Rogers's solicitousness.

"How's your throat?" Rogers asked after several minutes of silence.

"Doing better," he answered truthfully.

"Good. I wondered, since you still aren't talking much," Rogers teased gently.

Tony chuckled a little and slid his cup back onto the table. "You need air to talk," he said briefly, then carefully drew in a long breath before continuing. "Still working on the breathing thing."

"You seem to be doing much better at that than you were."

"Getting there," Tony agreed. "This helps," he said, tapping the tube connected to his nose.

Rogers nodded but didn't say anything else, and it wasn't much longer before Tony's eyelids grew too heavy to keep them up.

He slept soundly for the remainder of the night.

When he drew near the point of waking, he could hear Barton talking. In the pauses there was no audible response, so he figured out fairly quickly that Barton was on the phone. Likely the morning call with his family.

Tony was more or less awake by the time Barton finished his call. "How are the kids?" he mumbled into the silence.

There was a creak as Barton shifted his weight in the chair. "They miss me," he said simply. "And they're worried. You freaked them out, going down the way you did."

"Sorry," Tony said, peering over at Barton. He didn't look mad, but he was a hard one to read sometimes.

"They'd feel better if they could come and see you."

"Is that allowed?"

Barton shrugged. "I'm sure we can make it happen if you're up for it."

"You don't think all of this--" he gestured at himself and the machines, then took a breath, "--would freak them out?"

"Nah," Barton replied immediately. "Lila managed to see the picture we took of you for Pepper, so we've already had to explain about the machines and everything. You could use a little sprucing up, but I think you're due for a bath this morning anyway."

Tony shuddered. "Don't remind me." The nurses knew what they were doing, but being given a bath in bed was horribly undignified. As was requiring help with his elimination functions, but the less said about that the better. The only redeeming thing about the baths was that they now occurred following the morning breathing treatment when he was exhausted and likely to fall asleep and thus be spared some of the insult to his pride.

"It would have to be an afternoon thing, after Nathaniel's naptime."

That would give him time to sleep after the physical therapist came, and it's not like they would stay long since the kids ate dinner fairly early. It would be good to see them, and since he was going to be as clean as he could get for now . . . "How about today?"

"Sure you're up for it? It doesn't have to be today. I mean, you've not even wanted the rest of the team to visit yet."

How could he explain that the company of the kids was preferable right now? Kids were easy, all you had to do was let them talk at you. Adults--and especially these adults--would require way more effort and attention. He said lamely, "The kids are fewer people."

Barton laughed. "I'll check with Laura, but I think we can plan on that."

Tony nodded. He was saved from having to come up with anything else to say by Rhodey and Rogers returning from breakfast, a tray for Barton in tow. Barton began filling them in just as Rachel arrived for the morning's breathing treatment.

 

"Uncle Tony?" a small, slightly muffled voice said shyly.

Tony opened his eyes and smiled to see Lila bouncing in the doorway, one hand in Laura's and her brightly colored backpack in the other. She was wearing a blue paper mask, but even so he could tell she was grinning. "Hey, little bit," he said fondly.

Lila led Laura to the bed. "Nathaniel was still sleeping, so I left Clint with him, and Cooper stayed back with Auntie Nat," Laura said before Tony could ask. "He's had the sniffles so we wanted to play it safe."

Tony turned his attention back to Lila, who was staring at him solemnly with her big brown eyes. "Can I give you a hug?" she asked.

All of his tubes were on the opposite side of the bed from her, so he saw no reason to say no. "Come on up," he said, patting the open area beside him.

Her face lit up and she carefully climbed onto the bed with Laura's help. Tony sat up as well as he could and she gently slipped her arms around his neck in a hug. He patted her back and she pulled down her mask briefly to kiss his cheek before settling down facing him. "Will you be okay?"

"Eventually, yes."

"Why is your face so hairy?"

He grinned. "I'm trying a new look." He had decided that no one would be able to do justice to his usual goatee, so his morning shave--courtesy of Rogers--was only to trim everything evenly. "Do you like it?"

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "Too scratchy," she pronounced, then turned to Laura and asked for her backpack, which she unzipped to withdraw a piece of slightly crumpled paper. She tried to smooth it out, then set it on his lap. "I drew this for you."

"Thank you." His hands shook a little as he examined the drawing. God, he felt so weak and tired.

"Do you want me to explain it?" she asked patiently.

"Please."

"That's you on the bed in the middle, and that's all of us around the bed." She proceeded to name each stick figure, though he had a good idea who was who already from her artistic choices. Vision, for instance, was entirely purple.

"That's really nice," he said when she'd finished her recitation. "Thank you." He wondered if someone had given her the idea to draw it or if she'd come up with it on her own. Rhodey's words from the previous day about being a team echoed in his mind.

"What's that thing in your nose?" she asked abruptly.

"It helps me breathe," he said simply.

A few more questions about his bed and the equipment followed, some of which were answered by Rhodey before he could gather the words. He wondered if his growing exhaustion was that obvious or if Rogers had said something about their conversation the night before.

Her last question was, "Can I read you a bedtime story?"

"It's not bedtime," Tony felt compelled to point out.

She tilted her head as if pondering that. "Then it's a naptime story," she decided. "I'll read and you'll take a nap."

His exhaustion must be that obvious. "Sure, honey," he said agreeably, glancing at Laura, who reached over and squeezed his hand.

Lila rearranged herself to sit snuggled up against his side so he could see the pictures (he didn't mention that the pictures wouldn't matter if he was supposed to be sleeping), then began reading. It was something cutesy about a cat with shoes and he couldn't keep his eyes open past the first two pages.

He could still hear, though, so he knew when she stopped and he felt it when she climbed off the bed. "Was that okay?" he heard her ask someone worriedly.

He knew she wasn't talking to him, but he gave a thumbs up anyway. It was perfect.

 

After Lila's visit, Tony felt like he didn't have good reason to continue refusing to allow the rest of the team (such as it was) to visit him, too. But there would be ground rules.

To start, there would be no more than four people in the room at a time; this was recommended by Nikki and he liked the idea.

Also, no extra visitors while he was being tormented by Rachel or the physical therapist or even the nurses. In practice, this mostly limited their visits to the hours between lunch and dinner, which was just fine with him.

Last, if he was sleeping, don't wake him up. Rhodey thought that rule was unnecessary since it was common decency to let a sleeping person be, but Tony wanted to be specific, just in case.

Even as he was agreeing to the team visiting, Tony hoped they wouldn't come right away. It was absurd how tiring Lila's visit the day before had been even though he hadn't really done anything but sit there. Fortunately they took pity on him and didn't show up that afternoon.

He wasn't so lucky with Rachel. Now that his throat wasn't as sore, she started nagging him about eating and even told the doctors they should start scaling back how much he got through his feeding tube. Meal times were fraught with peril as he was offered things he didn't want to eat or drink but felt compelled to take anyway to signal that he was trying.

As if his continued existence wasn't proof enough that he was trying to recover.

Two days after Lila visited, Tony woke at lunchtime and opened his eyes to find the blinds on the hallway window had been lifted and everyone he'd left behind at the compound was standing there (even Cooper), watching him and waving.

"Can't you give a guy some warning?" he grumbled. He was genuinely happy to see the kids. He could do without most of the rest of them--he had no idea what they wanted from him and he frankly didn't care.

And they had brought lunch, because of course they would, and he didn't want any but they would offer and that was going to be awkward. He was debating whether he had time to plausibly "fall asleep" before someone could try to give him food when Lila brought over a cup and a colorful bendy straw and put them on his table.

Someone had made him a smoothie and the straw was one of Lila's favorites and how could he not try it with those big eyes watching his every move? He finished it for the same reasons, even though Lila had been shepherded out of the room at some point and was no longer supervising.

Natasha and Wilson stayed in the room with Rhodey and Barton--Rogers went with everyone else to somewhere else, he didn't know or care where--and he had to admit it was nice to hear some different voices as he slipped back into sleep.

 

Now that Tony was willing to allow visits from the rest of the team, there was something of a revolving door of superheroes cycling through his room. He was never sure who he might wake up to find beside him, since there could be up to three new faces (never four: one of his original three was always there too, most often it was Rhodey), and he was often surprised to see who had decided to come back. He'd been certain that a few of them wouldn't darken his doorway beyond that first day when everyone came, but there they were. Funny how they suddenly cared, now that he was sick.

Perhaps the oddest combination of visitors had been Wilson, Wanda, Vision, and Barton. Barton, of course, had been around, but Wilson and Wanda had no real reason to want to see him. They were probably there just to see Barton. Vision was something of a mystery; he'd been a staunch ally, that was true, but Tony suspected the only person he truly cared for was Wanda.

Rogers excused himself from babysit-Tony-duty after the team had been coming for a few days. "Duty calls," he'd said apologetically. Tony realized he should know about and possibly have input into some of the things Rogers was working on but he couldn't muster the energy to insist upon being informed.

In the meantime, Tony successfully graduated to a regular nose-thing-that-provides-air (it had a name, but he couldn't ever seem to remember what it was). Rachel was pleased with his progress, but still needled him about eating and needled the doctors about removing the feeding tube.

The evening doctor that had been around from the beginning (who Barton had called Doctor not-Bruce until they found out the doctor's name was, in fact, Dr. Bruce) agreed with Rachel, so they liberated him from that tube one evening. Now Tony was left with only the IV and the oxygen tube hanging around, and that was a good feeling despite his reservations about having to eat.

With fewer things for him to get hung up on, Zack the physical therapist started having him try moving around a bit more. One day he got to sit on the edge of his bed, his legs over the side and his feet several inches above the floor. It was a simple thing, yet he hadn't done it in so long that it felt like a huge step forward, never mind that he was maybe a little light-headed while he sat there and then he felt tired afterward.

Apparently he'd done well enough, though: the next day Zack had him sit on the edge of the bed and then ease forward so his feet were on the floor. His full weight wasn't on his legs, not yet--and Zack's hold on him made sure that even if he slipped off the edge of the mattress he wouldn't collapse onto the floor--but his bare feet were planted on the cold tile. He hadn't been on his own two feet in weeks. Goosebumps rose up on his skin and they had nothing to do with the temperature.

Predictably, the day after that was devoted to working his way up to actually standing. It hurt to try to straighten up fully and he was leaning a not inconsiderable amount of his weight into Zack's grip on his elbows, but he could stand.

One step closer to normalcy.

 

The next morning, the breakfast awaiting him when he woke included a cup of a dark brew that smelled vaguely like coffee. He picked it up and sniffed it more carefully, trying to decide if the slightly sour aroma was due to the interference of the nose-thingy or emanated from the liquid itself. Since he wasn't going to remove the tube, he couldn't draw any conclusions.

All the while, Barton watched him closely. A little too closely. Tony grew suspicious, especially since Rhodey was mysteriously not in the room. "What's this?" he demanded finally.

"It's exactly what you think it is," Barton said evasively.

Rhodey rolled into the room, wearing different clothes than Tony had seen him in last. So that's where he'd been.

"What is this?" he asked of Rhodey, gesturing toward the styrofoam cup squatting on his table.

Rhodey addressed Barton instead of answering. "You gave him some of that coffee?"

"I think he can handle it," Barton argued.

"Careful, Tony. It's pretty terrible," Rhodey warned.

"So it is coffee," Tony said, picking up the cup again and taking a cautious sip.

Whatever look crossed his face made Barton howl with laughter. He sipped it a second time, just to be sure he really tasted it, then set the cup down with a frown. Was it possible that being sick had affected his taste buds? Because that was not at all what coffee was supposed to taste like, even terrible coffee.

"Give me yours," he ordered, gesturing to Rhodey.

Rhodey sighed and passed his over by way of the table. Tony sniffed it, then sipped it carefully. That was vastly better. "Okay, see, _that_ is coffee," he said, giving it back to Rhodey. "I don't know what the hell this other stuff is."

"Worst coffee ever?" Barton asked with a grin.

"Indigestion in a cup," Tony corrected with a grimace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record: Children visiting people in the ICU isn't usually a thing. Lila is just too cute to resist, even as an author.
> 
> Also, the book about a cat with shoes is [Pete the Cat: I Love My White Shoes](https://www.harpercollins.com/9780061906220/pete-the-cat-i-love-my-white-shoes).


	8. Chapter 8

"Congratulations, you're being upgraded," Rachel said cheerily as she arrived.

Tony was still picking at his morning oatmeal with a grimace. "I hope that means an improvement in the menu," he said sourly.

She ignored his commentary on the food. "You'll be moved to a private room today."

"That's good news," Rhodey said.

"When do I get to leave entirely?" Tony inquired, jamming his spoon into his bowl and shoving it away.

"If I had to guess, I'd say it's whenever you can manage to handle your own bathroom duties and walk a decent distance down the hallway. Zack is the one you'd want to ask about that," Rachel said as she prepped the nebulizer.

"So it's just the physical therapist that's keeping me here?" Tony asked dubiously.

"Not exactly. You've got a little while yet on the heavy duty IV antibiotics, then they'll want at least one more chest x-ray before letting you leave. My say-so also keeps you here for right now, but that won't need to be the case for much longer."

"He'll be off the oxygen soon?" Rhodey sounded surprised.

Rachel glanced at him. "No, he'll still be using oxygen when he leaves."

"I don't like the sound of that," Tony said with a frown.

"Too bad," Rachel replied instantly. "You don't get a say." She tossed the nebulizer mask onto his lap. "Now shut up and breathe."

 

Later that morning, Barton and Rhodey were packing up everything that had migrated into Tony's room and piling it on Rhodey's wheelchair. Tony watched them silently for a while, then commented, "I don't think you brought enough stuff when you moved in."

"When you've been here as long as we have, it piles up," Rhodey said with some exasperation.

"Especially when the coffee sucks," Barton added as he left the room to empty the electric kettle in the bathroom sink. When he returned, he was leading a parade of people: Rachel, Nikki, and two orderly-types Tony didn't recognize, with Rogers bringing up the rear.

"Look who finally remembered how to get here," Tony teased half-heartedly.

"I got lost on the way," Rogers said deadpan. "It took Sam a week to find me."

"You should have taken some flares," Barton replied with mock earnestness. "The entire county would've found you."

"Here," Rachel said, dropping a hospital mask onto Tony's lap. "Just in case."

"You've got to be kidding me," he said, picking it up with a frown of distaste.

"Like I said, just in case. We've tried to pick a route that won't pass many people, but you never know what might be lingering in the air. Also, it's less likely you'll be recognized that way."

"I'd rather not go viral today," he agreed, reluctantly putting the mask on over his little nose tube.

"We're ready when you are," she said. Tony had been disconnected from anything that couldn't travel with him while they had been talking.

"Wheels up, let's rock and roll," Tony said confidently to hide the flash of uneasiness that shot through him as his bed began to move.

Rachel and Barton led the way, then the two orderlies managed the bed, followed by Rhodey pushing his wheelchair loaded with the stuff, and Rogers again brought up the rear. Tony felt faintly ridiculous with his entourage (and did Rachel really think people would recognize him and not Rogers?), but they passed very few people in the hallways and those people didn't seem to pay any attention.

He completely lost track of where they were; all he could say for certain was that they were no longer on the same floor of the building--the elevator had been a bit of a tight fit with everyone piled in. He felt very exposed and, as he was pushed into the new room, he realized the source of his anxiety.

"Is it safe?" he blurted. It hadn't been something he'd ever considered in the ICU, but that room also didn't have outside windows. This one did, along with actual furniture that could be used to hide behind or as weapons.

"Yes, boss," Friday's voice answered from a small speaker on the rolling table beside the open spot for the bed. "Colonel Rhodes and Captain Rogers have secured the room and added it to my monitoring routine."

"Friday," he said, a little bewildered by her voice being in the hospital room. "It's been a while."

"Twenty-two days," she agreed.

He didn't have a response to that, so he turned his attention to the activity around him. The two orderlies had left and were replaced with a nurse who was conferring quietly with Rachel as they checked over his machines. Rhodey and Barton were unloading the stuff from the wheelchair into a corner, while Rogers hovered between the end of the bed and the pathetically small TV against the wall. Seriously, he had computer monitors larger than that.

Tony addressed Rogers. "You sticking around for a while?"

"No," he said. "It snowed this morning, so Cooper wants to have a snowball fight."

"With you or against you?"

"He wants it to be me against everyone else."

That sounded like Cooper, all right. "Did Barton put him up to it?"

"I swear I knew nothing about it," Barton interjected with a grin. "But I'm certainly looking forward to it. I've not nailed Steve with a snowball before."

"Good luck with that," Tony said to Rogers. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Perhaps I should stay here instead," Rogers said ruefully.

"Nonsense, you just need to construct the right kind of base."

"You're an expert on snow forts now?" Barton said disbelievingly.

Tony scoffed and coughed a little. "It's a thing that is built. Of course I'm an expert."

"He can even make them blow up," Rhodey added as he sank onto the couch.

"Yes, but I wouldn't dare when there's children involved. Are you going to abandon me to pelt Rogers with snowballs, too?"

Rhodey snorted. "You know my opinion of snow. There's a reason I enjoyed being posted in southern California, and it had nothing to do with you."

"I'm hurt," Tony said with a dramatic sniff that wasn't quite as effective with the nose tube in the way. It felt good to joke around again. He hadn't felt up to it in too long, and even now he wasn't going to be able to keep it up much longer. His lack of energy was ridiculous.

Why did it take so long to recover?

 

Starting the day he changed rooms, the physical therapy sessions became longer and harder. That first day started the same way as usual, but rather than end when Tony managed to stand up straight and unaided beside the bed for several minutes, Zack treated it as only the beginning.

He led Tony in shuffling forward--no lifting of the feet, just sliding--until he'd reached the bathroom and ended up in front of the sink. The entire time, Zack insisted that he stand up straighter, support his own weight better rather than leaning his weight on Zack's forearms, and move faster. It was demoralizing to realize he needed that much coaching to do something as basic as walking, and he was grateful only Rhodey was there to witness it. Rhodey understood better than anyone what that felt like.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror didn't help. His hair was a greasy mess, his facial hair was long and scruffy, and even that didn't disguise his pallor or the puffiness of his face from the steroids they were dosing him with. He made a face at himself--god, it was a miracle the kids hadn't screamed in fright--and turned his back on the image as quickly as he could without getting tangled in the IV and everything else. Rhodey helped him sort things out, having followed him with the IV pole.

Returning to the bed was a little less stressful, Zack apparently having decided to go easy on him at that point, but he was definitely tired by the time he got there. Tired but satisfied. He'd done better than he'd expected to and he didn't even cough up a lung.

The next day, Zack brought a folded metal contraption with him and leaned it against the wall while he had Tony go through his warmups. Then he unfolded the thing without comment and set it by the bed. Tony eyed it with disdain. "Like hell I'm using a walker," he said scornfully.

Barton snickered from his perch on the couch.

"It's your choice, Mr. Stark," Zack said. "You're going to repeat that little exercise to and from the bathroom again today. It's up to you whether you use the walker or walk unaided. I will, of course, accompany you either way."

"You can do it, Tony," Rhodey said encouragingly.

Tony wasn't convinced, but there was no way he was going to use that . . . thing. He slowly stood up and took a few small, careful steps toward the bathroom. Normal people could cross the distance in three or four strides; it took him at least twice that many, but he made it without once having to grasp Zack's proffered arms.

When he arrived, he realized he needed to take a leak. Zack encouraged him to sit to do his business, but he refused. He was going to piss standing up as nature intended, even if it meant having to crawl back to the bed.

He avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands.

He made it back to the bed without incident and without having to crawl. Zack dared him to do it again. He really wanted to just sit in bed and feel smug about not using the walker, but then Zack upped the ante. "I'll never bring a walker again if you make that trip once more before I leave."

It was too good to pass up. Tony squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and all but marched to the bathroom and back again, Rhodey still trailing behind to mind the IV pole.

Zack was grinning as he refolded the walker. "At this rate you'll be out of here in no time," he said cheerfully. "If you would like to try that distance without me here, you're welcome to it as long as you're not alone in the room at the time."

"He's never alone," Rhodey said.

Tony all but collapsed back into bed, too drained to feel smug anymore.

 

Despite his success and the permission from Zack, Tony did not try crossing the distance to the bathroom until Zack forced him to do it again the next day. Twice, followed by a trudge toward the door of the room and back. Tony knew it was for his own good and he could tell that it was getting easier to move around even from one day to another, but he still grumbled about unreasonable expectations.

His grumbling amplified when Zack's suggestion that he walk to the bathroom independently became a demand. "You need to be up and on your feet more often than just when I'm here," Zack said. "Your friends can help, if you need it, and I know they'll keep you honest."

"I already know where I'm going to hide the bedpan so he has to get up," Barton volunteered.

"That's rude. And also disgusting," Tony said. 

But he did it, and it really wasn't so bad once he learned how long it took to make his equipment mobile. He even got to the point that it wasn't his muscles that slowed him down, it was his breathing and the way he'd start coughing up a lung if he inhaled too rapidly or frequently.

Rachel still somehow thought he was improving. And perhaps he was, he just wasn't doing it fast enough to be satisfied. He was staying awake more, that much was true. Rhodey and the others had brought his phone and a few other things so he could occupy himself as needed, but he found he couldn't really focus.

Having Friday around helped a little; he could tell her to do things and let his mind wander while she made it happen, especially when it came to cleaning out all of the messages that had been piling up in his absence. Anything that required more concentration, however, remained out of the question. He talked to Pepper on the phone every few days, which didn't require much from him but was still exhausting, and talking too much made him cough. 

He usually managed to keep Zack happy with his progress, which all too soon meant shuffling around in the hallway as well as his room. Rhodey would come with him, most of the time, though occasionally Barton opted to take the stroll instead.

Tony didn't know what to make of the fact that Barton continued to hang around. The visits from other members of the team had, predictably, dropped sharply as the days multiplied, until only a few were still showing up sporadically with a visitor every other day at most. But Laura had good reasons to bring Lila only a couple of times, and it was something of a wonder that Natasha and Sam appeared at all--it almost made him suspicious that they were up to something or were trying to make up for something he didn't know about yet.

Then that question became irrelevant: he was being released from the hospital. Rachel would come and stay at the compound until he didn't need the oxygen anymore but after that, they'd be on their own.

Rogers and Wilson came to help cart the stuff out to the car. Rhodey offered up his wheelchair for Tony's use; Barton pushed it and only once joked about dumping him down a stairwell.

Tony hated the idea of leaving in a wheelchair but didn't resist since he had no idea how far it was to the car. He'd only ever managed two rounds of the hallway before having to stop for a breathing break.

His first breath of outside air in forty-five days was sharp and cold and tinged with the smell of car exhaust and he only just managed not to cough.


	9. Chapter 9

Tony's grand entrance to the main room was in the wheelchair. That wasn't how he wanted to make his return, but he bowed to the collective wisdom of those accompanying him.

Which is to say, he didn't care what Rogers and Wilson thought and he told them so. Barton blocking his way out of the car with the wheelchair and silently staring him down was slightly more effective. Rhodey's wordless look of censure accompanied by a head tilt toward the chair had him settling his ass in the faux leather seat without further protest.

When they reached the main room, Tony wasn't sure what was more unbelievable: that everyone else was gathered there and seemed happy to see him, or the seemingly endless Christmas decorations strewn about the room.

He absently responded to their greetings and inquiries about how he was feeling, still focused on the eruption of festive garlands and knickknacks, complete with a large, brightly decorated--and evidently real, from the smell as he was pushed closer--Christmas tree in the far corner. Who the hell owned so much holiday stuff? And why?

"Did the elves get lost on the way to the North Pole?" he asked finally as Lila threw herself toward him with a squeal of joy.

"We decorated, Uncle Tony," she said, giggling as he helped her sit on his lap. "Christmas is coming soon and we get presents!"

"Presents? Why would you want presents?" he teased, focusing on her rather than where his thoughts wanted to go next.

"I like presents, Uncle Tony," she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper that could be heard across the room. "We have one for you already. I'm not supposed to tell."

"I won't tell either," he whispered back even as his heart sank a little. Gifts. Shit. He wasn't good at gifts.

Her voice returned to its normal volume. "Why do you still have that?" she asked, pointing to the nose tube (cannula, his memory finally reminded him).

"I'm not quite better yet, so I still need it. It will go away soon," he said, uncertain if that was actually the case but he didn't care. He wanted it gone, the sooner the better. Remaining tethered to something was . . . unsettling.

"Do you need to take a nap?" she asked earnestly.

He had to laugh. "No, honey, I'm all right for now."

Eventually he was moved from wheelchair to armchair--Barton even helped by moving the oxygen tank from where it hung on one of the wheelchair handles to the floor by his chair--and the activity of the room circled around him. Every so often he would be drawn into the conversation or asked a direct question but mostly he could simply sit and observe, which was fine by him. Just watching everyone move around was tiring and his mind was still preoccupied.

From his new perch he could see that a stocking had been hung for each person along the railing; each person included him, and his stocking bore an uncanny resemblance to the one lost when his Malibu house was destroyed. How they'd managed that, he didn't know, but Pepper was probably involved and maybe that meant something. Or maybe not. Their phone conversations had stuck to safe topics like Stark Industries business and avoided anything remotely treacherous, like their relationship, so he had no idea how Pepper was currently feeling about him on a personal level.

And the fact that there were two and a half weeks until Christmas (he'd had to ask Friday the exact date) when he'd last been aware of the calendar around mid-October was difficult to digest. Not that holidays held much significance for him, but the sheer amount of time that had slipped away without anything to show for it was staggering. He could have finished so many projects. How much had happened in the world, with the Accords, that he was unaware of? How could he possibly catch up?

He felt exhausted just thinking about it.

 

The afternoon seemed endless. After a while Tony realized a nap would have been an excellent idea, but he refused to let himself fall asleep in the chair like an old person and moving seemed like too much work.

Dinner felt hours long and when it was finally over, he knew he wouldn't last much longer before keeling over and sleeping in spite of himself. The trouble was how to make his excuses and get to his room without anyone being the wiser.

As it turned out, no excuses were necessary. He hadn't even mustered up the energy to leave the table when Rhodey's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Come on, Tony, we're going to bed."

"Are you propositioning me?" he joked, smirking up at his friend.

Rhodey gave him a disapproving look. "I'm tired, you're tired, and I want my wheelchair back, so I'm dumping your ass in bed."

He considered putting up a token resistance to the idea in the interest of maintaining his public image, but they had all seen him in the hospital bed so there wasn't much of an image to preserve. He nodded briefly in acquiescence.

Barton brought the wheelchair over and offered to push, an offer which Rhodey accepted on Tony's behalf before Tony could say a word. Lila came along for the ride and told him what she called a "bedtime story," though there was no discernible story line and the main character's name changed every few sentences.

Father and daughter left them at the door of Tony's room. Rhodey held open the door while Tony slowly got to his feet. He sighed as he surveyed the expanse that was his bedroom. "I'll be fine if you have somewhere to be."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going anywhere," Rhodey said in a tone that brooked no argument.

By the time he readied himself for bed with Rhodey's invaluable assistance, Tony was trembling with exhaustion and fighting back a cough with almost every breath.

Even after he was settled in bed, his cannula hooked up to a large oxygen tank squatting beside the headboard, Rhodey remained in the room. "Are you going to watch me sleep?" Tony asked seriously, unable to come up with an appropriate jibe for the occasion.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"I have a problem with you staring at me like I'm going to kick the bucket any second, yeah. You look like the Grim Reaper."

Rhodey didn't smile.

"Come on, man, if you're going to be here, you might as well be in the bed. There's plenty of room and I know you've been shorting yourself on sleep."

"Since when do you like cuddling?"

"No one said anything about cuddling," Tony said quickly. "Just sleeping."

Rhodey relented after a little more convincing and climbed into bed.

And if Tony happened to fall asleep with his head on Rhodey's shoulder, Rhodey wasn't going to tell.

 

Despite having been in bed at like eight o'clock the previous night, Tony still felt bone tired when Friday woke him in preparation for Rachel's imminent arrival. He even dozed despite the noise of the nebulizer during the morning breathing treatment.

"How are you feeling?" Rachel asked as she put away the nebulizer mask.

"Tired," Tony sighed. "I feel like I hit a wall."

"Did you rest yesterday?"

"No," Rhodey answered for him, (in)conveniently returning to the room as the question was asked. "He was up and awake the entire time," he elaborated as he set a plastic cup with a lid and a straw on the bed near Tony's hand and held it there.

"I was sitting on my ass in a chair all afternoon. That hardly counts as being up," Tony protested. At Rhodey's glare he picked up the cup. "What is this?"

"A probiotic and protein smoothie, or so I'm told. In other words: your breakfast. Drink up."

Tony sighed but took a sip, then turned his gaze to his breakfast to avoid seeing Rachel's forbidding expression. His cup had cartoon animals of some sort on it; must be one of the kids'.

"Adequate rest is essential, Tony. You ought to remember that from last time," Rachel said with some exasperation. "Treat your immune system like a toddler: it needs regular naps or it will get cranky with you. If it will help, I can demand that you rest at a certain time each day."

"I don't need a babysitter," Tony grumbled.

"Except when you do. Stay in bed this morning and see how it goes. If you actually rest and behave yourself today and you still feel like crap tonight, we'll consult your medical folks to see if there's some sort of infection recurring. Got it?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Tony said sullenly.

Rachel turned to Rhodey. "He's allowed to leave the room starting at lunchtime if he's feeling better. If you're in doubt about him feeling better, don't let him leave."

"Don't worry, I'll have it covered," Rhodey said, crossing his arms across his chest. His gaze never left Tony.

Tony meekly sipped from his straw.

 

When all was said and done, Tony had very little trouble behaving himself. Feeling physically ill from being too tired wasn't a thing he had experienced in a very long time, and even then it was usually associated with either copious amounts of caffeine or alcohol, which had their own side effects. He wasn't eager to prolong or repeat the experience.

He spent the bulk of the morning sleeping or dozing--and coughing, but that went without saying--with the occasional trip to his ensuite bathroom, which felt so very far away even though he knew it wasn't. Rhodey was gracious about helping him with the stupid oxygen thing and not saying anything about how pathetic he must look.

By lunchtime, he felt marginally better but he wasn't overly eager to budge from his bed, so he didn't. Rhodey didn't leave to eat his lunch until Barton appeared with food for Tony in tow.

Tony didn't appreciate that he was being treated like a naughty child, but under the circumstances he supposed he'd proven it necessary. And having his meals brought to him in bed wasn't all bad, though he eyed the salad, soup, and sandwich warily. He wasn't particularly hungry and he certainly wasn't hungry enough for all three, but he wasn't sure who he would offend if he didn't eat it all.

Barton waited to say anything until Tony was halfway through his soup. "Will you come down for dinner, do you think?"

Tony looked at him over the rim of the soup mug suspiciously. What difference did it make where he ate his dinner? Assuming he ate any dinner . . . the soup was proving a formidable foe and he hadn't even touched anything else yet.

"I'm asking for the kids," Barton said defensively. "Lila wanted to visit but Rachel told us you weren't to be disturbed as long as you were in your room."

"I think I can come down for dinner," Tony said slowly. "For the kids."

"They'll be happy to see you."

When Rhodey returned from lunch, Tony threw back the covers of his bed. "I need a bath," he announced.

 

It took Tony most of the afternoon to bathe, rest, shave, rest, dress, and rest in order to be able to venture downstairs for dinner. But he was ready in time and Rhodey let him borrow the wheelchair again so he wouldn't exhaust himself.

The visually overwhelming Christmas decor was still a bit of a shock, but even more of a shock was how much effort had been put into the meal. There was quite a spread on the table and spilling over onto the counter, with turkey and potatoes and gravy and pies and, and, and . . .

"We thought we'd have a smaller repeat of Thanksgiving since you and Rhodey missed it," Barton explained.

"This is smaller?" Tony asked in disbelief.

"Yep. There's only one kind of meat, and we've only got about half the sides."

Tony was impressed and also felt guilty: there was no way he was going to be able to do justice to that array of food. He hadn't even managed both the soup and the salad at lunch, never mind the sandwich.

But he would try, since they had gone to such trouble on his behalf. It was almost like they cared. Though honestly, it hadn't bothered him to miss Thanksgiving.

He refused to sit in the wheelchair at the table, so Barton showed Lila how to help with the portable oxygen tank while Tony moved the short distance. Lila eagerly climbed into a chair next to him. "Uncle Tony, you fixed your face!" she cried in delight. Natasha grinned as she sat on Lila's other side.

Tony rubbed his cheek self-consciously. It had taken more time and effort than he had expected to trim his facial hair into its usual style, but having that little part of himself back to normal was well worth it. "You were right. It was too scratchy," he said.

The food began circulating around the table, and he and Lila developed a system where he would hold the dish and she would serve the food onto both their plates. It was a good strategy, since it meant he ended up with a little bit of everything, but only a little bit.

Even so, he was right in thinking he wouldn't do it justice. No one seemed to notice, much less mind.

He didn't know what to make of that.


	10. Chapter 10

Tony's day of rest was followed by a restless night. During the brief times he was sleeping, he was dreaming, and when he was dreaming, there were nightmares . . . primarily of suffocating, whether in water or in space or in his sleep. Several times he jerked awake, sweating and gasping for breath between coughs.

He gave up on the whole endeavor in the wee hours of the morning. Once he decided he might as well be awake, he had to decide what to do with himself.

The problem of Christmas gifts had been weighing on his mind, and he had an epiphany that he could go down and have Friday tell him what was in the packages already beneath the tree so he had some idea of what would be appropriate for the kids. He'd been exempted from the adult's gift exchange, having been in the hospital when they drew names, but he planned to do something for Rhodey nonetheless.

Thus resolved, he slipped out of bed and readied the portable oxygen the way Rachel had shown them. As he lifted the carrying case he realized he hadn't yet had to cart around his own oxygen; someone had always been on hand to mind that part for him. It wasn't overly heavy and it had a shoulder strap, so it shouldn't have been a big deal.

And yet.

He was already uncomfortable with being tethered to a device thanks to unpleasant memories, memories that were all too fresh after the nightmares. While the oxygen was lighter than that car battery, the idea of having to lug it around put him on the verge of calling off any attempt to leave his bedroom on his own.

But that was stupid. He needed to be able to manage this, and the only way to do that was to power through. Fake it 'til you make it. He set off down the hall toward the elevator.

And it was fine.

Or it would have been if his brain hadn't already been primed to freak out at the slightest provocation . . .

. . . even a provocation as slight as the tightness in his chest and something unfamiliar bumping against his hip.

Just like that, he simply could not abide having the tank and its attached tubing near him, much less physically touching him.

He continued down the hall after shedding the offending items, trying to focus on the images his eyes presented rather than the images his memory presented.

It was hard to breathe. _The emptiness of space is crushing him._

It hurt to breathe. _The electromagnet is heavy in his chest and he'd surely inhaled some water._

Elevator. He stepped in and could hear his harsh breaths and choking coughs echoed back at him. He was hyperventilating, big surprise. For a moment he thought he heard a woman's voice, but it was hard to hear over his attempts to breathe and then it was gone.

By the time the elevator doors opened again, he'd forgotten why he'd come. He only knew that something was driving him forward and that something was only just keeping the memories at bay, so it was something to heed.

He staggered out of the elevator, one hand against the wall in an attempt to remain upright. The distance to the doors seemed endless, but he made it. He very nearly didn't manage to get the door open without falling--and once he fell, he was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to get up again--but then he was into the main room.

His legs were buckling beneath him, so he fell gracelessly into the nearest chair. He leaned forward, hunching around the ache in his chest, his stomach aching from the coughing.

With nothing left between him and the memories, he was lost.

 

Steve didn't normally go to the common room immediately after a run, but that morning he really wanted some orange juice so he made a detour on his way back up to his room for a shower.

All thoughts of orange juice vanished at the sight of Tony doubled over in a chair, one hand braced on the conference table while the other clutched at his chest where the arc reactor used to be. His breaths between wheezing coughs were ragged and gasping.

"Tony?" Steve inquired, hurrying over and shaking his shoulder. "Sit up, it will be easier," he urged, but Tony did not acknowledge him. "Friday, have you called for help?"

"Colonel Rhodes is on his way," Friday responded.

"Get Rachel up here right now," Steve ordered as he continued his efforts to get Tony to sit up to ease his breathing.

Rhodey burst into the room and pulled up alongside Tony's chair. "Help me get this back on him," he said, holding up the abandoned oxygen tank and tubing.

Between them, they put the cannula back into place, but it didn't seem to help.

Rachel's arrival moments later was a relief to them both. She took stock of the situation and began pulling equipment out of the bulky bag she was carrying. "Plug this in for me," she said shortly, holding an electrical cord out toward Steve. Rhodey was tasked with putting a mask onto Tony's face while Rachel started up the machine.

When it was running, she manhandled Tony into sitting upright and had Steve hold him there. "Breathe for me, Tony," she ordered, snapping her fingers in front of his face until he glared at her. She grinned. "There you are. Deeper, now. In and out. Follow me."

Regaining a normal breathing rhythm involved a good deal of coughing and wheezing, but eventually Tony no longer sounded like he was suffocating. He sagged back into the chair, aware enough of what was around him that Steve didn't need to continue holding him up.

"What happened?" Rachel finally demanded. "Tony, don't try to talk until I say you're done."

Steve and Rhodey contributed what they knew, which didn't explain much. Tony moved the mask slightly to explain himself, but she insisted that Tony focus on breathing, not talking. The standoff lasted several minutes.

"I can't carry it around like that, I-I can't," Tony said finally.

"Why not? It can't be too heavy," Rachel replied.

"It's not."

"Then what's the problem?"

Tony glanced briefly toward Rhodey. "Memories," he murmured. Rhodey looked pained.

"Is there another way to carry the tank around?" Rhodey asked.

"There's a rolling cart apparatus for the larger tanks--" Rachel said.

Tony snorted.

"--Or it can be worn like a backpack," she finished.

Rhodey cast a look at Tony, who shrugged and nodded. "Let's try that," Rhodey said.

 

By the time Rachel unhooked him from the nebulizer, every single Avengers-related person who could show up in the common room had shown up. As everyone had filed past, Tony alternated between humiliation (even the kids had seen him struggling) and defiance (it wasn't his fault his lungs were so severely jacked up right now) and ended up somewhere in between, at embarrassed exhaustion.

To their credit, no one had lingered nearby to gawk. Instead, they carried on with the business of breakfast as if he wasn't making a fool of himself by the door, though there may have been some glances sent his direction.

As much as he dearly wished to turn tail and vanish at the first opportunity, he had the tank to deal with until Rachel could find a backpack-style carrier, and he didn't want to face the return trip to his bedroom just yet. There was no way he'd make it by himself. Plus it was likely he'd be followed by someone professing concern about him, and he didn't want to deal with that, either.

So it was easier to go with Rhodey to the other end of the room, his oxygen tank in Rhodey's lap while he "pushed" the wheelchair, though Rhodey was doing most of the work. He took up residence on a couch, stretched out, and was asleep before anyone could bother him about breakfast.

 

Rachel got the new case to him by evening and he used it the following day to venture down to his workshop.

While getting rid of the oxygen entirely would be the optimal solution, the backpack carrier was a definite improvement. Wearing it like that, he didn't have to think about it, and the tubing was out of sight and tucked away where it was less likely to get caught on things.

This gave him more mobility, assuming he remembered to change the tank. He didn't always remember, but there was always someone around to retrieve a fresh one for him since a fair amount of his time was spent in the common areas. Even when he wasn't in the common areas, someone was nearby or knew where he was, that someone usually being Rhodey.

By the time he'd been back for a week, he'd made definite progress in how far he could manage to go without needing a breather but he chafed at the fact that he still required lengthy daily naps--sometimes twice daily, depending on what he'd been doing and how he'd slept. His attempts at exercise were a mockery of what he used to do and left him feeling like a limp rag. He kept trying; he'd lost muscle mass while in the hospital and he absolutely needed to regain some of it to make suiting up again a possibility.

Not that he was going to be suiting up again anytime soon, but he had to have something to look forward to.


	11. Chapter 11

Clint sighed and hefted Nathaniel onto his shoulder as he quietly padded out into the hallway. The toddler fussed fretfully and clutched his shirt, pressing his forehead into Clint's neck. Clint closed the door softly, then patted his back. "Friday, is anyone else up?" It was a long shot at that hour, but it was worth a try.

"Boss is in his workshop," Friday reported.

Huh. Clint bounced Nathaniel a little as he went to find out what Tony was up to.

The wall between the workshop and the hallway was glass, so Clint could see Tony and vice versa, though Tony didn't seem to notice him. Clint stopped where Tony appeared to be staring straight at him but his presence went unnoticed. Tony was slumped at his workstation, an elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, his oxygen backpack making him look a little like a turtle.

Clint went to the door and knocked. That sound and Friday's notification of his presence seemed to rouse Tony from his reverie and he sat up straighter as Clint came in. "I didn't expect anyone else to be awake," Clint said. "Can't sleep?"

"You could say that," he replied evasively.

Clint tried a different tack. "What are you working on?"

"Nothing," Tony said glumly. "I can't seem to focus. I . . . I don't feel like myself. I don't know how to fix that."

Clint came a little closer, seeing defeat in Tony's bleak expression. That he had admitted so much spoke volumes. "You almost died. It takes time to come back from something like that."

Nathaniel noticed it was Uncle Tony and held out his arms toward him. Clint gestured and Tony nodded, so he handed Nathaniel over.

"You haven't slept well since you got back from the hospital, have you?"

Tony sighed. "No."

"Nightmares?" Clint knew too well what that was like, but could only guess at the things that haunted Tony's nights.

He looked down at Nathaniel rather than meet Clint's gaze. "It feels like I'm suffocating and I wake up and it's hard to breathe," he admitted quietly.

Clint was silent for a moment, considering. "Was that a problem in the hospital? From our perspective, it seemed like you were sleeping okay."

"It was only a problem a couple of times. Here it happens almost every night."

Clint could hear the weariness in Tony's voice, and he knew it wouldn't help his recovery to sleep so poorly night after night. It explained all the napping, though. "Would it help if someone sat with you, like we did at the hospital?"

Tony finally glanced up at him. "I don't know," he said reluctantly.

"Come on, let's see what happens. It can be an experiment."

"Barton, I don't need you to be my minder," he said sourly.

"You need to sleep," Clint said pointedly. "And so does Nathaniel. Part of the experiment can be to see if he'll sleep for you, since he sure isn't sleeping for me."

Nathaniel yawned and rubbed his eyes with his fists.

Clint waited patiently.

"Fine," Tony said, sounding resigned.

 

Clint waited until Tony was settled in bed before giving Nathaniel back to him. Tony still seemed unconvinced about the whole endeavor, but Nathaniel contentedly snuggled into his side and was asleep almost immediately.

He quirked a smile. "Score one for Uncle Tony."

"I'll know who to recruit the next time he won't sleep," Clint said.

Tony didn't answer. He was obviously tired, but he seemed to be fighting sleep the way Nathaniel had been earlier. Clint wished there was something he could do, but willing him to sleep wouldn't work any better on him than it had on the toddler.

Eventually Tony surrendered and he relaxed into sleep. Clint relaxed some too, and kept watch through half-lidded eyes.

Tony slept soundly for a good three hours before his breathing changed, coming in shorter pants as he began shifting restlessly. Clint touched his arm and that seemed to shake him out of it for the moment. He studied Tony a little longer, then carefully slid a second pillow beneath his head.

Clint woke Tony out of dreams twice when his breathing grew labored; each time, Tony stared at him blearily, never speaking, and didn't even seem to recognize him. Once, Tony clutched his arm in a bruising grip, and Clint had to pry his hand off. He couldn't even guess what sort of dream prompted that reaction.

Nathaniel didn't even twitch until well after the time he was normally awake. When he finally sat up and held his arms out to Clint, Tony was sleeping quietly so it seemed safe to take him to Laura.

The errand took longer than Clint anticipated--he should have just texted Laura and asked her to send someone to retrieve Nathaniel--and when he returned, Tony was sitting up in bed, gasping and wheezing. Clint sat facing him on the bed, close enough that Tony could lean against him for support.

Not only did Tony lean on him, even resting his head on Clint's shoulder, he clung to him, his arms snaking around him almost in a hug, and clutched his shirt with both hands. Clint returned the embrace, rubbing his back gently like he would do for one of the kids, and spoke quietly into his ear, encouraging him to breathe slowly, in through the nose and out through the mouth.

Tony's breaths evened out and he relaxed his grip on Clint's shirt. He remained tense but did not try to pull away. At length he spoke into the stillness. "Have you ever been afraid you'll go to sleep and just . . . not wake up again?"

"Once or twice, when I was injured," Clint replied after a moment's thought.

Tony released a long sigh.

"Go back to sleep. I've got you."

"It's not that simple, Barton."

"Really? You've been hugging me for the last, like, fifteen minutes, and I'm still 'Barton' to you, Stark?" he teased lightly.

Tony snorted. "Fine. Clint."

"Tony," Clint replied. "I'll make sure you keep breathing."

"How good of you," Tony said, weariness seeping back into his tone.

Rachel arrived about two hours later, accompanied by Rhodey. They found Clint supporting a snoring Tony. Clint looked back at them over his shoulder. "I think I know why he's not sleeping well."

 

Clint's observation was a simple one: sleeping Tony tended to breathe through his mouth, so the oxygen at his nose wasn't doing any good.

Tony protested being called a mouth breather. Clint pointed to the wet patch on his shirtsleeve. Tony didn't try to argue after that.

Rachel's proposed solution was also simple: he could try wearing a mask at night instead of the cannula.

After that was settled, Clint pulled Rhodey aside and they discussed something quietly enough that Tony couldn't hear it over the nebulizer. Which wouldn't have been a big deal, except for the way they kept glancing at him while they talked. He found that very suspicious.

As it turned out, they had been conspiring . . . about having someone sit with him overnight. He put two and two together when Rhodey settled in beside his bed while Rachel was getting his oxygen mask squared away.

He was too tired despite two naps during the day to try to convince Rhodey to tell him if they'd discussed anything else. He was also too tired to be anything but grateful that he had company if the oxygen mask didn't help.

He woke up a couple of times but never for long, and never because he felt like he was suffocating.

When he woke for good, Clint was sitting with him. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, and seemed genuinely interested. 

_Yeah_ , Tony replied with his hands rather than his voice. _Thanks._

 

After three nights of sleeping with the mask, Tony was feeling good enough that he tried ditching the oxygen during the day. He didn't think he needed it anymore, and the only way to find out was to try.

He didn't just leave the tank behind, that would be too obvious. He continued wearing the dratted setup, but 'forgot' to start the airflow going.

After two days, Rachel realized he hadn't had any empty tanks and questioned him about it. He admitted what he'd done without remorse and, to his surprise, she wasn't angry. "I wondered if you would try before I forced you to," she said, sounding pleased. "Keep it nearby, just in case, wear it if you do anything strenuous, and I'll start reducing the amount you get at night after a few more days to see how it goes."

The first day without the cannula, he almost felt naked. He also felt lighter and freer, and the only damper on the day was that he still took a nap in the afternoon. He'd really hoped those would stop being necessary when he started sleeping better, but apparently not. So annoying. At least no one had tried drawing on his face with markers yet. (He was almost certain someone would do it eventually.)

Another continued source of frustration was his inability to focus on just about anything. Rhodey had finally given him permission to design a better wheelchair, but all his mind drew were blanks. He'd started and restarted that project at least half a dozen times, always with unsatisfactory results.

Fortunately, there were usually other things going on that could occupy his time, what with Christmas being only days away. The last of the gifts were wrapped, including his to the kids; Laura had taken pity on him and given him a few ideas, like some of those cat books for Lila. An astonishing amount of baked goods and other sweets issued forth from the kitchen, most of it arranged onto decorative platters and taken to various areas of the compound for the staff who worked there.

Lila was only too happy to have Uncle Tony help her decorate sugar cookies or pick which pieces of fudge to put onto a particular plate. Laura liked to make him stir the fudge while she provided direction. He got to be pretty good at telling when the milk-butter-sugar concoction was ready for the other ingredients, though his arms were tired from stirring long before the batch was actually done.

At least he was useful, even if not in the usual ways. He still worried privately about whether he'd ever feel like he was fully back to being himself.

And Lila enjoyed reading him naptime stories before he dozed off for a bit in the afternoons.

Then it was Christmas Eve and the flurry of activity shifted from baking to preparing for a large dinner the following day. Tony mostly watched, bewildered, as dishes were washed and counted, foodstuffs were grouped on the counters in various locations and accounted for against printed recipes, and lists were made of what needed to be started when and by whom. Evidently cooking the meal was going to be an all-hands-on-deck situation; he hoped they'd assign him something easy.

Even the topic of food wasn't safe from good-natured bickering; when Rhodey found out that sweet potatoes were on the menu, he insisted they had to be made with marshmallows. Sam, the designated potato preparer, disagreed vehemently. "Do you know what's in a marshmallow? I am not putting that crap in my body."

"Have you even tried it? Learn to live a little, man," Rhodey shot back in his 'I'm older and wiser than you' voice. Tony was well acquainted with that tone.

"We can make some both ways," Laura interjected, the voice of reason and compromise. "We have plenty of potatoes."

"Want to bet which ones are gone first?" Sam asked with a grin.

"It won't even be a contest, but I'll go for it," Rhodey agreed.

They were debating the terms of the bet when Tony was distracted by Steve taking a seat next to him at the counter. He'd gotten the impression that Steve was avoiding him, but apparently that could be set aside for the sake of Christmas dinner.

"What do you want to do?" Steve asked, sliding him the scribbled list of what needed doing and what was already being taken care of.

He was about to offer to handle the dishes--the dishwasher was first-rate, so it wouldn't be a big deal--but they were all distracted by Natasha and Clint returning from a last-minute run to the grocery store with the report that it was snowing. Food-related activity ground to a halt as Cooper and Lila begged to go play in the snow.

Tony missed exactly when it happened, but somehow that request turned into everyone preparing to troop outside. He shrugged and followed the crowd to a closet he didn't even know was there, stocked with cold weather gear in all sizes.

"Are you sure this is a good idea for your lungs?" Rhodey asked as Tony shrugged a fleece-lined jacket onto his shoulders. Rhodey was already dressed in coat, hat, scarf, mittens, and boots. Why he needed boots when he was in the wheelchair, Tony didn't know and wasn't going to ask.

"I'll be fine. That's what a scarf is for, right?" Tony answered casually, though the same thought had crossed his mind.

As he trailed near the back of the pack of people, sticking close to Rhodey and fussing with his overlong scarf, Tony realized he hadn't been outside since he'd come home from the hospital.

He'd improved by leaps and bounds since then. He still had a way to go, but he wasn't in a wheelchair, wasn't on oxygen, and that was something. When he'd talked to Dr. Harris two days before about the naps and the concentration issues, she'd assured him that was a normal part of the recovery process. He would get there, she promised, it just would take some time.

For now, it seemed he had both time and people who were more or less willing to look out for his health, even if he wasn't convinced that they had his back when it came to anything else. Still, they were getting along better than he'd expected and, hell, he'd even hugged Barton--Clint--and that's not something he would have predicted. Maybe they had a chance, not to go back to the way things used to be, but of finding a way forward they could all live with.

The snow was falling softly in large flakes, quickly covering exposed surfaces in a layer of white. Lila almost immediately plopped down to make a snow angel while Cooper wandered in the opposite direction to see if the snow was good for snowballs and Clint pulled Nathaniel around on a little plastic sled. Sam had found a shovel somewhere and was clearing the sidewalk ahead of Rhodey.

All terrain wheels, Tony decided, watching Rhodey carefully inch across the pavement. The new wheelchair needed all terrain wheels to handle snow and other such obstacles. He added that thought to his mental file on the subject, then returned it to the recesses of his mind.

The air was cold but not biting and, after a few experimental breaths through the scarf, Tony pulled it down. One careful breath through his nose, then two, and he felt fine. The chill on his cheeks was briskly invigorating and there was no sign of coughing yet.

"Uncle Tony, come make a snow angel with me!" Lila called, waving eagerly.

He pulled the scarf over his mouth before trying to talk. "In a minute, little bit," he replied.

For the moment, he was content just to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> A few comments on roads not traveled:  
> -[Recovering from sepsis can be a big deal](https://www.cdc.gov/sepsis/pdfs/life-after-sepsis-fact-sheet.pdf), and Tony's recovery as depicted here is faster than would be realistic when you consider both the pneumonia and the sepsis. I considered making more of a point about some of the lingering effects like appetite problems, but I needed this story to not be novel-length, so I didn't.  
> -I also debated making Tony's lung issues more disabling as a result of becoming so ill--along the lines of fibrosis or COPD--but again, I needed this story to actually end. It seems plausible to me (disclaimer: not a medical professional) that, with the extent of the damage assumed by the prompt, it wouldn't take a whole lot more to make his lungs dysfunctional enough to require a low level of oxygen assistance permanently. If that thought inspires anyone, feel free to run with it. ;-)


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